O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme! Thou art a tree whereon all poets climb; And from thy branches every one takes some Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon. But now thy tree is left so bare and poor, That they can hardly gather one plum more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ABYSS by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE SODA-WATER SLOT-MACHINE by BELLA AKHMADULINA THE FIRST BREAK by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE CLINGING VINE by ANTIPATER OF SIDON CASTLES IN THE AIR by JAMES BALLANTYNE TWO SONNETS: 2 by DAVID P. BERENBERG THE RING AND THE BOOK: BOOK 8. DOMINUS HYACINTHUS ... by ROBERT BROWNING |