|
|
To His Friend, On The Untunable Times.
By Robert Herrick
Play I could once; but, gentle friend, you see
My harp hung up here on the willow tree.
Sing I could once; and bravely, too, inspire
With luscious numbers my melodious lyre.
Draw I could once, although not stocks or stones,
Amphion-like, men made of flesh and bones,
Whither I would; but ah! I know not how,
I feel in me this transmutation now.
Grief, my dear friend, has first my harp unstrung,
Wither'd my hand, and palsy-struck my tongue.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 329 times.
|
|
