Call me no more,
As heretofore,
The music of a feast;
Since now, alas!
The mirth that was
In me is dead or ceas'd.
Before I went,
To banishment,
Into the loathed west,
I could rehearse
A lyric verse,
And speak it with the best.
But time, ay me!
Has laid, I see,
My organ fast asleep,
And turn'd my voice
Into the noise
Of those that sit and weep.
His Lachrymë; Or, Mirth Turned To Mourning
Robert Herrick
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Poem topics: lyric, music, time, voice, fast, speak, noise, verse, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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