Ye flow'ry meads, where I do use to sing, And with complaining notes do often fill ye, Ye purling streams, where I with quav'ring string, Make music, tell the praise of my Azile; Ye shady groves and melancholy places, Where oft I do retire to sigh my wrongs, Ye lofty hills that oft hear my disgraces, To whom I chatter forth my heavy songs, Let these persuasions now your voices move, Say if I ever spake against my love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 1. THE BRIGHT MOON by CONRAD AIKEN RHYTHM by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DEEP IN THE QUIET WOOD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO OUR MOCKING-BIRD; DIED OF A CAT, MAY, 1878 by SIDNEY LANIER DOMESDAY BOOK: THE JURY DELIBERATES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |