My throat is sore, my voice is hoarse with skriking,
My rests are sighs, deep from the heart-s root fetched;
My song runs all on sharps, and with oft striking
Time on my breast, I shrink with hands outstretched;
Thus still, and still I sing, and ne-er am linning,
For still the close points to my first beginning.
My Throat Is Sore
John Wilbye
(1)
Poem topics: heart, song, time, voice, deep, throat, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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