WHEREFORE do thy sad numbers flow So full of woe? Why dost thou melt in such soft strains, Whilst she disdains? If she must still deny, Weep not, but die; And in thy funeral fire Shall all her fame expire. Thus both shall perish, and as thou on thy hearse Shall want her tears, so she shall want thy verse. Repine not then at thy blest state: Thou art above thy fate; But my fair Celia will not give Love enough to make me live; Nor yet dart from her eye Scorn enough to make me die. Then let me weep alone, till her kind breath Or blow my tears away or speak my death. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FAERY FOREST by SARA TEASDALE OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH by HAROLD MONRO ALFRED THE HARPER by JOHN STERLING (1806-1844) WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON CASEY AT THE BAT (2) by ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 7. MIDSUMMER by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |