Cupid, my little boy, come home again, I do not blame thee for thy running hence, Where thou found'st nothing but desire's pain, Jealousy, with self-unworthiness, offense. Alas, I cannot Sir, I am made lame, I light no sooner in sweet Myra's eyes, Whence I thought joy and pleasure took their name, But my right wing of wanton passion dies. And I, poor child, am here instead of play, So whipped and scourged with modesty and truth, As having lost all hope to scape away, I yet take pleasure to 'tice hither youth; That my schoolfellows plagued as well as I, May not make merry, when they hear me cry. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RAVEN; A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AFTER DEATH by FRANCES ISABEL PARNELL RIFLEMAN FORM! by ALFRED TENNYSON PESSIMIST AND OPTIMIST by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH RAILWAY DREAMINGS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE LAY OF THE LEGION by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN LONG LIVE LIFE by JACQUES BARON |