To spring belongs the violet, and the blown Spice of the roses let the summer own. Grant me this favor, Muse -- all else with-hold -- That I may not write verse when I am old. And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time! Be not too ready to deny me rhyme; And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse, I beg you very gently break the news. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONATA IN PATHOS by CONRAD AIKEN MARIA CALLAS, THE WOMAN BEHIND THE LEGEND* by MADELINE DEFREES TO A MOTH SEEN IN WINTER by ROBERT FROST THE JOY OF THE HILLS by EDWIN MARKHAM DOMESDAY BOOK: THE JURY DELIBERATES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS RICHARD BOOTH TO HIS SON JUNIUS BRUTUS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |