Wherefore, unlaurell'd Boy, Whom the contemptuous Muse will not inspire, With a sad kind of joy Still sing'st thou to thy solitary lyre? The melancholy winds Pour through unnumber'd reeds their idle woes, And every Naiad finds A stream to weep her sorrow as it flows. Her sighs unto the air The Wood-maid's native oak doth broadly tell, And Echo's fond despair Intelligible rocks re-syllable. Wherefore then should not I, Albeit no haughty Muse my heart inspire, Fated of grief to die, Impart it to my solitary lyre? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON BRODSKY'S COLLECTED by MICHAEL S. HARPER NEEDLE THREADER IN NEED OF A NEEDLE by DARA WIER SOLILOQUY OF A TURKEY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR UNDERWOODS: BOOK 1: 25. MOTHER AND SON by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 13. TO AUTHOR OF MEMOIRS OF HOUSE OF BRANDENBURGH by MARK AKENSIDE |