To Love in my heart, I exclaimed, t'other morning, Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warning; Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty, To go gadding, bewitched by the young eyes of beauty. For weary's the wooing, ah! weary, When an old man will have a young dearie. The god left my heart, at its surly reflections, But came back on pretext of some sweet recollections, And he made me forget what I ought to remember, That the rose-bud of June can not bloom in November. Ah! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days -- Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies. But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching, That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching; And the only new lore my experience traces, Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces. How weary is wisdom, how weary! When one sits by a smiling young dearie! And should she be wroth that my homage pursues her I will turn and retort on my lovely accuser; Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted? It is you, the enchantress -- not I, the enchanted. Would you have me behave more discreetly, Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE DRIVING CLOUD by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ON SEEING BLENHEIM CASTLE by LUCY AIKEN THE ORGANIST by KATHARINE LEE BATES BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 2. THE FIFTH SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) EPITAPH ON A SUICIDE by ROBERT BURNS THE RITTER BANN by THOMAS CAMPBELL THE AIRS OF SPRING by THOMAS CAREW |