HARK! O hark! you guilty trees, In whose gloomy galleries Was the cruel'st murder done That e'er yet eclips'd the sun. Be then henceforth in your twigs Blasted, ere you sprout to sprigs; Feel no season of the year, But what shaves off all your hair; Nor carve any from your wombs Aught but coffins and their tombs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 6. THE KISS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE PRINCESS: SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON THE REVENGE; A BALLAD OF THE FLEET by ALFRED TENNYSON PEACE ON EARTH by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE TRANSLATED WAY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS NOONTIDE REST by ANTIPHILUS OF BYZANTIUM LEANDER DROWNED by PHILIP AYRES |