TOO oft, when our new minstrels sing, How fine so-e'er the Song be wrought, We catch behind the stricken string Some touch that tells the music taught Less by an impulse than a thought: -- Not so with thine, O Poet, where We breathe again the passionate air, And feel, at Love's divine commands, Once more the joy too keen to bear, And the hot tears upon our hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DREAM SONG: 2 by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRUTLI by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 44 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN AMORETTI: 70 by EDMUND SPENSER AGAMEMNON: HELEN. CHORUS by AESCHYLUS |