MY little songs do I utter From out of my great, great sorrow; Some tinkling pinions they borrow, And tow'rd her bosom they flutter. They found it, and over it hover'd, But soon return'd they, complaining, And yet to tell me disdaining What they in her bosom discover'd. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAMOMILE TEA by KATHERINE MANSFIELD VERY EARLY SPRING by KATHERINE MANSFIELD NIGHT AND DAY: 2 by ISAAC ROSENBERG HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW; IN MEMORIAM by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON THE OLD SHIPS by JAMES ELROY FLECKER HAARLEM HEIGHTS by ARTHUR GUITERMAN |