The worke is done: young men, and maidens set Upon my curles the Mirtle Coronet, Washt with sweet ointments; Thus at last I come To suffer in the Muses Martyrdome: But with this comfort, if my blood be shed, The Muses will weare blackes, when I am dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GREEN RIVER by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE DORCHESTER GIANT by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME? by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER MYRRHA by VITTORIO AMEDEO ALFIERI OUTSIDE THE TOYSHOP by JANE BARLOW THE BALLAD OF BAZILE BORGNE: L'ENVOI by IDA COLE BARTLATT POUR QUI SAIT ATTENDRE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |