BEHOLD the bards are sighing That the sylvan year is dying— Let her die! Lo, for many hundred years, On as many hundred biers, We've seen her lie. The bards and year both lie, Ananias-like they try This little game. You may hit her with a brick, You may pound her with a stick, Yet all the same— When the trees put on their green, Then the sylvan year is queen, Young and spry. Like the principles of truth, Or the wandering Jew, forsooth, She cannot die. Though the sobbing winter rain Dribbles forth a sad refrain, Yet what of that? The sylvan year contrives To have as many lives As a cat. Oh, she will live to be The last leaf upon the tree, This sylvan year; And with the insect-powder man And the patent motor fan, Reappear. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NO PLATONIQUE LOVE by WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT TO MARY UNWIN by WILLIAM COWPER THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 6. THE KISS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI AMORETTI: 65 by EDMUND SPENSER TOUJOURS AMOUR by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN THE EWE-BUCHTIN'S BONNIE by GRISELL BAILLIE PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE: GERARD DE MANDEVILLE by ROBERT BROWNING AN ADMONITION AGAINST SWEARING, ADDRESSED TO AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY by JOHN BYROM |