The poetical works of Henry Kirke White | ||
IX.
[Hushed is the lyre—the hand that swept]
Hushed is the lyre—the hand that swept
The low and pensive wires,
Robbed of its cunning, from the task retires.
Yes—it is still—the lyre is still;
The spirit which its slumbers broke
Hath passed away,—and that weak hand that woke
Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.
The low and pensive wires,
Robbed of its cunning, from the task retires.
100
The spirit which its slumbers broke
Hath passed away,—and that weak hand that woke
Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.
Yet I would press you to my lips once more,
Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy;
Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour,
Mixed with decaying odours: for to me
Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy,
As in the wood-paths of my native — [OMITTED]
Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy;
Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour,
Mixed with decaying odours: for to me
Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy,
As in the wood-paths of my native — [OMITTED]
The poetical works of Henry Kirke White | ||