CÆLIA is gone, and now sit I As Philomela, on a thorn, Turn'd out of Nature's livery, Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn; Only she sings not, while my sorrows can Afford such notes as fit a dying swan. So shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun; So from honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done. So sits the turtle when she is but one; So is all woe; as I, now she is gone. To some few birds kind Nature hath Made all the summer as one day, Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath, As night, they sleeping pass away: Those happy creatures are that know not yet The pains to be depriv'd, or to forget. I oft have heard men say there be Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory; But could they teach Forgetfulness, I'd learn and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too. Sad Melancholy that persuades Men from themselves to think they be Headless or other bodies' shades, Hath long and bootless dwelt with me; For could I think she some Idea were, I still might love, forget, and have her here; But such she is not: nor would I, For twice as many torments more, As her bereaved company Hath brought to those I felt before; For then no future time might hap to know, That she deserv'd, or I did love her so. Ye hours then but as minutes be, (Though so I shall be sooner old,) Till I those lovely graces see, Which but in her can none behold: Then be an age that we may never try More grief in parting, but grow old and die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ELEGY ON THYRZA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE BIRTHNIGHT: TO F by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE GOOD SHEPHERD by FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO A RECIPE FOR SALAD by SYDNEY SMITH PASSAGE TO INDIA by WALT WHITMAN EPISTLES ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF WOMEN: 3 by LUCY AIKEN |