Dull to my selfe, and almost dead to these My many fresh and fragrant Mistresses: Lost to all Musick now; since every thing Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing. Sick is the Land to'th' heart; and doth endure More dangerous faintings by her desp'rate cure. But if that golden Age wo'd come again, And Charles here Rule, as he before did Raign; If smooth and unperplext the Seasons were, As when the Sweet Maria lived here: I sho'd delight to have my Curles halfe drown'd In Tyrian Dewes, and Head with Roses crown'd. And once more yet (ere I am laid out dead) Knock at a Starre with my exalted Head. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES [MAY 10, 1863] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON CORYDON - A PASTORAL by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE VIKING by CLARIBEL WEEKS AVERY THE BOOK OF AHANIA by WILLIAM BLAKE A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |