Hast thou upon the idle branches hung, O Lyre, this livelong day, Nor as the sweet wind through the rose-leaves sung Uttered one dulcet lay? Come down, and by my rival touch be rung As tenderly as they! Did not Alcæus with blood-streaming hand Range o'er his trembling wire, Stealing forth sounds more eloquently bland Than softness could desire, As if with myrtle bough sweet Venus fanned His rapt Lesboan lyre? And shall not I, that never will imbrue This hand except in wine — My battle-field a bed of violets blue, Where conquered nymphs recline — Shall not I wake the soul of sweetness too, Thou gentle Lyre of mine? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE ON THE RHINE by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES THE LOST SHEEP by ELIZABETH CECILIA CLEPHANE PROGRESSIVE HEALTH by CARL DENNIS THE FIVE STUDENTS by THOMAS HARDY WHEN THE COWS COME HOME by AGNES E. MITCHELL NUPTIAL SLEEP by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI |