Poetry Archives

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet, slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs:
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
   Droop herbs, and flowers,
   Fall grief in showers,
   Our beauties are not ours:
      O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
   Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature’s pride is, now, a withered daffodil.