Some act of Love's bound to rehearse, I thought to bind him, in my verse: Which when he felt, Away (quoth he) Can poets hope to fetter me? It is enough, they once did get Mars, and my mother, in their net: I wear not these my wings in vain. With which he fled me: and again, Into my rhymes could ne'er be got By any art. Then wonder not, That since, my numbers are so cold, When Love is fled, and I grow old. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LANDSCAPES (FOR CLEMENT R. WOOD) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE TASK: BOOK 4. THE WINTER EVENING by WILLIAM COWPER ROBIN REDBREAST by GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE LINCOLN by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL DORIS; A PASTORAL by ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY UPON A WASP CHILLED WITH COLD by EDWARD TAYLOR THE COMING OF HIS FEET by LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN EPITAPH ON THE TOMBSTONE OF A CHILD, LAST OF SEVEN THAT DIED BEFORE by APHRA BEHN |