WITHER away, green leaves, Wither away, sweet flowers; For me in vain young Spring has thrown Her mantle o'er the bowers: Sing not to me, gay birds, Borne in bright plumage hither; The heart recoils from pleasure's voice When all its fond hopes wither! Wither away, my friends, Whom I have loved sincerely; 'T is hard to sigh for the silent tomb As a place of rest, so early! While others prize the rose, The cypress wreath I'll gather; The heart recoils from pleasure's voice When all its fond hopes wither. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IMAGINARY ANCESTORS: THE GIRAFFE WOMAN OF BURMA by MADELINE DEFREES INEVITABLY (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON AT THE ZOO IN SPAIN by CLARENCE MAJOR HEART'S FIRST WORD (2) by ISAAC ROSENBERG ONLY OF THEE AND ME by LOUIS UNTERMEYER |