Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,
Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair;
Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers
Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.
Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming
To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above:
O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming,
I too could glide to the bower of my love!
Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,
To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.
Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest,
Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me—
Come—this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest,
Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee!
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Song by George Darley )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Poems Without Words, Richard Autry
- The inner child, bryan wallace
- Deepest Desire, Rajendra Nagdev
- I Dream Of You, Arthur Moore
- Reaching Her, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- The Witch, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- Wartime, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- Summer's Eve, Naveed Khalid
- Nightmare, Naveed Khalid
- City, Indira Renganathan