THROW by the trappings of your tinsel rhyme! Hush the crude voice, whose never-ending wail Blights the sweet song of thrush, or nightingale, -- Set to the treble of our querulous time; Is earth grown dim? Hath heaven her grace sublime, Her pomp of clouds, and winds, and sunset showers Merged in the twilight of funereal hours, And Time's death-signal struck its iron chime? O! false, frail dreamer! not one tiniest note From yonder green-girt copse, but whispers "shame!" -- Love, beauty, rapture, swell the warbler's throat, -- The self-same joy, the passion blithe and young, Thrilled by the force of whose immaculate flame, The first glad stars, the stars of morning, sung! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER MUSIC: 34 by JAMES JOYCE A BALLAD OF ATHLONE; OR, HOW THEY BROKE DOWN THE BRIDGE by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE TO HESTER [SAVORY] by CHARLES LAMB EXPLANATION by VIRGINIA A. ALLIN SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 1 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) VELLEN THE TREE by WILLIAM BARNES |