LEAVE not your bough, my slender song-bird sweet, But pipe me now your roundelay complete. Come, gentle breeze, and tarrying on your way, Whisper my trees what you have seen to-day. Stand, golden cloud, until my song be done, (For he's too proud) before the face of the sun. So one did sing, and the other breathed a story; Then both took wing, and the sun stepped forth in glory. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TRUE UNTIL DEATH by ROBERT BURNS MY SWEET BROWN GAL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON, FR. THE HELLENICS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD by THEODORE O'HARA SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 123 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |