THE soul is like a song-bird, and must hold Its silent August, or its heart would break; From the hot rushes of the unruffled lake No warbler pipes, and where the elms enfold Blackbird and thrush, no music is outrolled; They wait in solitude and voiceless ache, Till, with serenest winds, September wake The enchanted pipes and winged age of gold. So with the heart; and therefore blame thou not, Brisk lover, that thy pensive maid is mute, Wandering beside thee with a downcast air; She is not heedless, nor thy love forgot, But passion dons her dreamy autumn suit To wake renewed in beauty, freshly fair. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUCOLIC COMEDY: KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID by EDITH SITWELL THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON HARBOR [JUNE 12, 1630] by HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A SHORT SONG OF CONGRATULATION by SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) THREE FRIENDS OF MINE: 5; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 57. TRUE WOMAN, HER LOVE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI TO THE WINDS; A SONG by PHILIP AYRES |