Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above; O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love! Ah where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away. Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me, Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MINERVA JONES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS MUSIC by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET BEARS AT RASPBERRY TIME by HAYDEN CARRUTH THEY ACCUSE ME OF NOT TALKING by HAYDEN CARRUTH AND SO, I THINK DIOGENES by AMY LOWELL BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK by AMY LOWELL FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL |