Where is a mote that I can save
Of thy sustaining scent or shade,
That will restrain the cutting blade?
Where is the poet, and where the priest
To lend me succour and surcease
Of these dull phantoms, who increase
Their nightly throngs to murther peace,
And kindle fire of fretful care,
Into my entrails steal their lair,
And burden ev'ry murmured prayer
With leaden weights of bleak despair.
I am thy pupil and thy monk,
Thy buds to me are verses sunk,
Wherein I read an august work
Where scents do teach and shades instruct.
Teach me the story of thy grace,
That on this mound is held in place
To one disgruntled and displaced,
To beckon in the tomb's embrace.
No comments:
Post a Comment