MY temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad-- So, Thyrsis, take the Midnight Oil, And pour it on a lobster salad. My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read,-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE by WILLIAM HERBERT CARRUTH SOLILOQUY OF A TURKEY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR WITHOUT CEREMONY by THOMAS HARDY A SHORT SONG OF CONGRATULATION by SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) TO THE UNKNOWN EROS: BOOK 2: 3. ARBOR VITAE by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE ON THE DEATH OF A CAT by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI AMERICA by JAMES MONROE WHITFIELD |