FOR aye be hynce ye vayne delyghts So short as seeme the guiltie nyghtes Yatte men forweare inne folie! This lowlie world hath nothyng swote Hadde mortals onlie wytte to know yt But halie melancholie. Then welcome armes yatte folded lye From heavie breste the long-drawn sye, The purses of the browe, The loke yrooted to the growne, The tong ychaynde withouten sowne, Unguided steps and slowe. The moonlight walk in pathless grove Where aye pale passion yearnes to rove, The well hede-kele and still. The midnyghte howre when all the fowles Are housde and hushte save battes and owles Yatte screche theyre bodynges shrille. The fadyng clink of dystaunt bell Whose knell the tale of dethe doth tell, The grone of partyng ghoste, These sownes aleyne the sowle doth feede Yatte of a higher world hath hede, Forlettying erthlie loste. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOURNEY by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY BEAUTY ROHTRAUT by EDUARD FRIEDRICH MORIKE THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 2. RUSTIC INTERIOR by JOHN ARMSTRONG THE ESCAPE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TO BETTINE; THE CHILD-FRIEND OF GOETHE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING DOVECOTT MILL: 2. THE GARDENER'S HOME by PHOEBE CARY |