Shall I go to Love and tell, Thou art all turn'd isicle? Shall I say her Altars be Disadorn'd, and scorn'd by thee? O beware! in time submit; Love has yet no wrathfull fit: If her patience turns to ire, Love is then consuming fire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN by ROBERT BROWNING THE MAIZE by WILLIAM WHITEMAN FOSDICK IN HARBOR by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE EPITAPH ON HIMSELF by MATTHEW PRIOR THE OLD MAN AND JIM by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY LOUSE HUNTING by ISAAC ROSENBERG SOLITUDE by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX |