Poetry Archives

O fly not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;
  Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:
      For my heart no measure
      Knows, nor other treasure
To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,
  Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:
      For I fain would borrow
      Thy sad weeds to-morrow,
  To make a mourning for love’s yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time’s divine dear Pity,
  Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay,
      But passed forth from the city,
      Making thus my ditty
Of fair love lost for ever and a day.