I sing thee with the stock-dove's throat, Warm, crooning, superstitious note, That on its dearie so doth dote It falls to sorrow, And from the fair, white swans afloat A dirge must borrow. In thee I have such deep content, I can but murmur a lament; It is as though my heart were rent By thy perfection, And all my passion's torrent spent In recollection. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS THE HIGHWAYMAN by ALFRED NOYES THE VANITY OF THE WORLD by FRANCIS QUARLES L. OF G.'S PURPORT by WALT WHITMAN FRAGMENT OF A CHORUS OF A DEJANEIRA by MATTHEW ARNOLD |