IN this scarred age thine own is Beauty's bust Should'st thou bear sword or lily, or from stair Descend, or bind a band about thy hair, Queen of Romance, evoking flowers from dust. But for thy token Mirth were robed in rust. Speak -- all the muses wake. Die, and Despair Lives ever. Arms of dream or fleshly glare Encircle us. Thy Phaedra wakes our lust. All fain to suffer, every heart adheres To thy sad heart, for we have seen thy tears And all our sorrows streaming down thy cheeks. And, Sarah, O benignant Sorceress, Thou too must feel, whenas thy genius speaks, The lips of Shakespeare on thy fingers press. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DON JUAN: CANTO 1 by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A VALEDICTION: OF WEEPING by JOHN DONNE TO JOHN DONNE (1) by BEN JONSON MAN, THE MAN-HUNTER by CARL SANDBURG THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 67. THE THREE AGES OF WOMAN: 2 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 31 by THOMAS CAMPION |