WHO will believe my verse in time to come, If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.' So should my papers, yellowed with their age, Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, And you true rights be termed a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice,--in it and in my rhyme. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUNCHES OF GRAPES by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE QUEEN FORGETS by GEORGE STERLING BROKEN MUSIC by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE WILD GEESE by MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY SONNET: ONE MORE BRUISED HEART by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE COMMON LOT by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |