THOSE eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light, Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show; That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright, Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow; The rich redundance of that golden hair, Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day; That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, Where now those treasures? -- mouldering into clay! Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, Hath young Perfection withered in its morn, Touched by the hand that gathers but to blight! Oh! how could Love survive his bitter tears? Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres, But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU SAY YOU SAID by MARIANNE MOORE THE SAILOR TO HIS PARROT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL AND BUS-RIDING LADY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF AESCHYLUS by AESCHYLUS |