I can in groups these mimic flowers compose, These bells and golden eyes, embathed in dew; Catch the soft blush that warms the early Rose, Or the pale Iris cloud with veins of blue; Copy the scallop'd leaves, and downy stems, And bid the pencil's varied shades arrest Spring's humid buds, and Summer's musky gems: But, save the portrait on my bleeding breast, I have no semblance of that form adored, That form, expressive of a soul divine, So early blighted; and while life is mine, With fond regret, and ceaseless grief deplored -- That grief, my angel! with too faithful art Enshrines thy image in thy Mother's heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 5 by EZRA POUND CINQUAIN: MOON-SHADOWS by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY LINES; SUGGESTED BY GRAVES TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL YOU LINGERING SPARSE LEAVES OF ME by WALT WHITMAN TO WAKEN AN OLD LADY by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TWO SONGS FROM THE PERSIAN: 2 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE KING OF YVETOT by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER HEY, CA' THRO' by ROBERT BURNS UPON SOME ALTERATION IN MY MISTRESS, AFTER MY DEPARTURE INTO FRANCE by THOMAS CAREW |