THE LADY TO HER GUITAR
For him who struck thy foreign
string,
I ween this heart has ceased
to care;
Then why dost thou such
feelings bring
To my sad spirit--old Guitar?
It is as if the warm sunlight
In some deep glen should
lingering stay,
When clouds of storm, or
shades of night,
Have wrapt the parent orb
away.
It is as if the glassy brook
Should image still its willows
fair,
Though years ago the woodman's
stroke
Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair.
Even so, Guitar, thy magic
tone
Hath moved the tear and
waked the sigh:
Hath bid the ancient torrent
moan,
Although its very source
is dry. |
