Had birds no season for their precious songs, What would we call them but a common pest? Since Music's now a manufactured thing, Potted and churned in every house we pass — Think of the birds, how they more wisely sing. That Paradise we dreamed of years ago, When Music, rarely heard, was thought divine, Is for the 'Damned', and not the 'Happy Blest'; Since, fed by force, with Music cheapened so — Is there no quiet place to sleep or rest? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES IN MEMORY OF GENERAL GRANT by HENRY ABBEY MEN OF GENIUS by MATTHEW ARNOLD TO MRS. AIKIN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE UNIVERSAL MOTHER by SABINE BARING-GOULD THE LOST COLORS by MARY A. BARR ON THE DEATH OF MR. WOODWARD, AT EDINBURGH by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |