A vine o'er me, a withered plane, hath grown, And shrouds my limbs with foliage not their own, Grateful—because my boughs, once verdant, trained Her tender shoots, her clustering grapes sustained. So choose, fond boy, a partner like the vine, Whose love around thee, e'en in death, may twine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NIGHT MOTHS by EDWIN MARKHAM A DIALOGUE ANTHEM by GEORGE HERBERT THE BANKRUPT by JOSEPH BEAUMONT GILBERT: 2. THE WELCOME HOME by CHARLOTTE BRONTE DESERTED FARMS by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON VERMONT WILD FLOWERS IN AUGUST by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 29 by THOMAS CAMPION |