LAST, where song itself is vulgar, beauty, there will swing past the smallest Mullar-Mulgar, from a muted string echoes that, though they enchain the restless heart of man, fade, and tremble, and regain the pale musician. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EPITAPH by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 11 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI IN YOUTH IS PLEASURE by ROBERT WEVER TRAILING ARBUTUS by HENRY ABBEY RID OF HIS ENGINE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |