Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SONNET: TO HIS LUTE, by WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN



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SONNET: TO HIS LUTE, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: My lute, be as thou wast when thou didst grow
Last Line: Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.
Alternate Author Name(s): Drummond, William
Variant Title(s): Sonnet: 8
Subject(s): Lutes


My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What are thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.







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