THE grief that is but feigning, And weeps melodious tears Of delicate complaining From self-indulgent years; The mirth that is but madness, And has no inward gladness Beneath its laughter straining, To capture thoughtless ears; The love that is but passion Of amber-scented lust; The doubt that is but fashion; The faith that has no trust; These Thamyris disperses, In the Valley of Vain Verses Below the Mount Parnassian, -- And they crumble into dust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER WINTER by STERLING ALLEN BROWN THE MOUSE by ELIZABETH JANE COATSWORTH A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD; OR, THE BURSTING OF THE GUNS by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE CHANT OF DEPARTURE; A MISSIONARY'S PRAYER by ALFRED BARRETT |