WHEREFORE, unlaurelled Boy, Whom the contemptuous Muse will not inspire, With a sad kind of joy, Still sing'st thou to thy solitary lyre? The melancholy winds Pour through unnumbered reeds their idle woes, And every Naiad finds A stream to weep her sorrow as it flows. Her sighs unto the air The wood -maid's native oak doth broadly tell, And Echo's fond despair Intelligible rocks re-syllable. Wherefore then should not I, Albeit no haughty Muse my breast inspire, Fated of grief to die, Impart it to a solitary lyre? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MOUNTAINEER AND POET by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE POET AND HIS BOOK by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE FOUR ZOAS: THE SONG OF LOS by WILLIAM BLAKE SONNETS FOR NEW YORK CITY: 3 by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH HIS DAUGHTER, DYING ON HER FATHER'S BIRTHDAY by HENRY CAREY (1687-1743) LIVING BY FAITH by PHOEBE CARY |