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Read more poems by William Drummond: William Drummond Poems at Poetry X.

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To His Lute

William Drummond

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle, still her loss complain.

Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 16 Oct 2018 12:41 AM | Viewed: 3852 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/7171/ | Viewed on 15 October 2018.
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