A SWEET lute pined in a palace, And heard the slow years roll, And it dreamed of the mighty musician, Who alone drew forth its soul. It abode mid splendour and glory, Mid stately and gracious things, But afar were the magic fingers, Beloved of the magic strings. And the great sun looked on its pining, And the calm moon gazed on its pain, And they left it to dream of its hero And be wooed by the world in vain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, NEITHER SHADOW OF TURNING' by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH YOUTH by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ODE ON THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER by JORGE MANRIQUE THE LAST SUPPER by RAINER MARIA RILKE TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD by BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS |