FAREWELL, thou dimpled cherub, Joy, Thou rose-crown'd ever-smiling boy, Wont thy sister Hope to lead, To dance along the primrose mead! No more, bereft of happy hours, I seek your lute-resounding bow'rs, But to yon ruin'd tow'r repair, To meet the god of groans, Despair; Who, on that ivy-darken'd ground, Still takes at eve his silent round, Or sits yon new-made grave beside, Where lies a frantic suicide: While lab'ring sighs my heart-strings break, Thus to the sullen power I speak: "Haste with thy poison'd dagger, haste, To pierce this sorrow-laden breast! Or lead me, at the dead of night, To some sea-beat mountain's height, Whence with headlong haste I'll leap To the dark bosom of the deep; Or show me, far from human eye, Some cave to muse in, starve, and die; No weeping friend or brother near, My last, fond, falt'ring words to hear!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THAT SUCH HAVE DIED by EMILY DICKINSON ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES by JOHN KEATS THE WOMAN AND THE ANGEL by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE TRUTH AND SORROW by PHILIP JAMES BAILEY REVOLUTION by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON LIFE'S FINEST THINGS by BANGS BURGESS |