TO fix her, -- 'twere a task as vain To count the April drops of rain, To sow in Afric's barren soil, -- Or tempests hold within a toil. I know it, friend, she's light as air, False as the fowler's artful snare, Inconstant as the passing wind, As winter's dreary frost unkind. She's such a miser too, in love, Its joys she'll neither share nor prove; Though hundreds of gallants await From her victorious eyes their fate. Blushing at such inglorious reign, I sometimes strive to break her chain; My reason summon to my aid, Resolved no more to be betray'd. Ah, friend! 'tis but a short-lived trance, Dispell'd by one enchanting glance; She need but look, and I confess Those looks completely curse, or bless. So soft, so elegant, so fair, Sure, something more than human's there; I must submit, for strife is vain, 'Twas destiny that forged the chain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BACCALAUREATE by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH SONNET - REALITIES: 1 by EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE: 3 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE GRAPE-VINE SWING by WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS |