Wherefore, unlaurell'd 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 unnumber'd 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 heart inspire, Fated of grief to die, Impart it to my solitary lyre? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER by WALLACE RICE THE FIELD MOUSE by WILLIAM SHARP TO A SHADE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE LAST DEMAND by FAITH BALDWIN PSALM 79 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE CARPENTER'S STORY by ARCHIE BINNS |