When the sobbing lute complains, Grieving for an ancient sorrow, This poor sorrow that remains Fain would borrow, To give pleading unto sorrow, Those uncapturable strains. All, that hands upon the lute Helped the voices to declare, Voices mute But for this, might I not share, If, alas, I could but suit Hand and voice unto the lute! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COWPER'S GRAVE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING DON JUAN: CANTO 1 by GEORGE GORDON BYRON WOODS IN WINTER by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SOLDIER: TWENTIETH CENTURY by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE INCHCAPE ROCK by ROBERT SOUTHEY THE CITY DEAD-HOUSE by WALT WHITMAN |