ALL things are symbols; and we find In morning's lovely prime, The actual history of the mind In its own early time: So, to the youthful poet's gaze, A thousand colours rise, -- The beautiful which soon decays, The buoyant which soon dies. So does not die their influence, The spirit owns the spell; Memory to him is music -- hence The magic of his shell. He sings of general hopes and fears -- A universal tone; All weep with him, for in his tears They recognise their own. Yet many a one, whose lute hangs now High on the laurel tree, Feels that the cypress'd dark bough A fitter meed would be: And still with weariness and wo The fatal gift is won; Many a radiant head lies low, Ere half its race be run. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TWO SAYINGS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA by ROBERT BROWNING CHURCHILL'S GRAVE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON OF A BAD SINGER; EPIGRAM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE A GAGE D'AMOUR by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON THE MOURNING GARMENT: THE DESCRIPTION OF THE SHEPHERD AND HIS WIFE by ROBERT GREENE |