ALAS! my shweet Daffodel's eyes Aye made a greet ole in my arts With rapchure my art almost dies, When I see my adjored depart. She's as bucheous as morning in May; No wonder to love I'm injuc'd; She's the shweetest of creachures I say, That nachure has ever projuc'd. Not Harculus boasts of more force; Not Dougle-ss shows more desire; Not Caato more virchus resource; Nor Uthellur e'er rag'd with more fire -- Than I for shweet Daffodel feel, When jest by the woodlands we meet: She's the emblum of all that's genteel; She's parfect in all that is shweet. I made her a promus of love; To ajore her ever was my juty: I was onest and true as a dove, For who could be false to such a beauche! I never my promus will breek, Though the whirld should in phalanx oppose: Her virchue will bind me to keep What her radiunt eyes did impose. My art haches to think on her charms Lest forchune her aspect should churn: -- Was the beauche but once in my harms, She from me should never rechurn. Shet out from her presence I mope; The shepherds all call me schupid: Would forchune then lend me a rope, I'd soon bid ajue to shweet Cupid. If I lose her, I'll mount on my orse, To bid her ajue then inclin'd; And to cheer my art under her loss; I'll drink off a bottle of wind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RAT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE MAN HE KILLED by THOMAS HARDY STILL FALLS THE RAIN; THE RAIDS, 1940. NIGHT AND DAWN by EDITH SITWELL THE LAST INVOCATION by WALT WHITMAN THE STRANGER'S ALMS by HENRY ABBEY TO THE NECROPHILE by WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG |