My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow With thy green mother in some shady grove, When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve, Which wont in such harmonious strains flow, Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above, What are thou but a harbinger of woe? Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear; Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; For which be silent as in woods before: Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DREAM, AFTER READING DANTE'S EPISODE OF PAULO & FRANCESCA by JOHN KEATS THE CITY AT THE END OF THINGS by ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN PRO PATRIA MORI by THOMAS MOORE STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1718 by JONATHAN SWIFT RAILWAY DREAMINGS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON VALEDICTORY; THE SCHOLAR TO THE ASHES OF HIS LIBRARY by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB |