THE air, which thy smooth voice doth break, Into my soul like lightning flies; My life retires whilst thou dost speak, And thy soft breath its room supplies. Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, I join my trembling lips to thine; And back receive that life from thee, Which I so gladly did resign. Forbear, Platonic fools, t' inquire What numbers do the soul compose! No harmony can life inspire, But that which from these accents flows. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE YOUNG LAUNDRYMAN by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE TRAGEDY OF VALENTINIAN: THE POWER OF LOVE by JOHN FLETCHER THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM, THE MURDERER by THOMAS HOOD SOUTH WIND by SIEGFRIED SASSOON WILD WEATHER by KATHARINE LEE BATES ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES I; AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES |