Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart, While, from its source, each wild convulsive start Tears the scorched roses from my burning face? In vain, O Lesbian Vales! your charms I trace; Vain is the poet's theme, the sculptor's art; No more the lyre its magic can impart, Though waked to sound, with more than mortal grace! Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove That passion mocks the empty boast of fame; Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love, Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame! Oh! may the ecstatic thought in bosom move, And sighs of rapture, fan the blush of shame! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VOYAGE by CAROLINE ATHERTON BRIGGS MASON COMPARISON OF LOVE TO A STREAM FALLING FROM THE ALPS by THOMAS WYATT TO AN ISLE IN THE WATER by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS DRINKING SONG (2) by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE A TURKISH LEGEND by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |