Thou sittest at thy lyre, O lady sweet! Teaching it all thine own delicious soul; Thy voice, the while, swells richly o'er the whole, And greets mine ear, for Angel-ears more meet; Unhappy me! not for another's bliss, But that thou art the blessing! soon to me Though now thy song doth sound so dear and free, Its spell shall vanish in another's kiss; Unhappy me! my wounds must ever smart; Alas! for fruitless love! Alas! for them, Who pluck the flowers and press them to their heart, Though other hands must claim the vital stem, And all its future bloom; I know thou art Powerless to save, though hating to condemn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INFERENTIAL by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON A TRIBUTE OF GRASSES by HAMLIN GARLAND ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES TO SIR HENRY CARY by BEN JONSON SMOKE IN WINTER by HENRY DAVID THOREAU |