No more ye warblers of the wood! no more; Nor pour your descant grating on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier: The man of worth -- and hath not left his peer! Is in his "narrow house," for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring! again with joy shall others greet; Me, memory of my loss will only meet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HARP by RALPH WALDO EMERSON LOST AND FOUND by GEORGE MACDONALD LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM by THOMAS MOORE RING FROM THE RIM OF THE GLASS, BOYS by JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING: 4 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) S. MATTHIAS by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |