The sin was mine; I did not understand. So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand. And in the withered hollow of this land Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave, That hardly can the leaden willow crave One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand. But who is this who cometh by the shore? (Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this Who cometh in dyed garments from the South? It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss The yet unravished roses of thy mouth, And I shall weep and worship, as before. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMFORT IN AFFLICTION by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE ELDER'S WARNING; A LAY OF THE CONVOCATION by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN TO A DOG by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE GLOW-WORM by VINCENT BOURNE DEEDS UNDONE by GAMALIEL BRADFORD |