When we forget that Nature gives No other home to lovers than The haunted house of Death — Let us then call our love immortal, Nor think we waste our breath. But Love, still looking for a place To lean her head against, and sing, Should never have her childish brain Vexed by a thought so cold and grave, To turn her joy to pain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EROS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES ODE TO TOBACCO by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY THE WARNING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SONNET UPON HISTORIE OF GEORGE CASTRIOT, ALIAS SCANDERBERG by EDMUND SPENSER HASSAN'S MUSIC by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ECHOES OF SPRING: 8 by MATHILDE BLIND UNDER THE TREES by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH AN EPISTLE THROWN INTO A RIVER IN A BALL OF WAX by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |