A Book of old English love songs . [84]. Ctye ^ong of Celati^ne Marinas gone and now sit I As Philomela on a thorn,Turned out of natures livery, Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn:Only she sings not, while my sorrow canBreathe forth such notes as suit a dying swan. So shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun;So from ti e honey-suckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done ;[85] W$t §>ong of CelaU^ne So sits the turtle when she is but one,And so all woe, as I, since she is gone. To some few birds kind nature hathMade all the summer as one day ; Which once enjoyd, cold wint
A Book of old English love songs . [84]. Ctye ^ong of Celati^ne Marinas gone and now sit I As Philomela on a thorn,Turned out of natures livery, Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn:Only she sings not, while my sorrow canBreathe forth such notes as suit a dying swan. So shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun;So from ti e honey-suckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done ;[85] W$t §>ong of CelaU^ne So sits the turtle when she is but one,And so all woe, as I, since she is gone. To some few birds kind nature hathMade all the summer as one day ; Which once enjoyd, cold winters wrath,As night, they sleeping pass away. Those happy creatures are, they know not yet, The pain to be deprived, or to forget. I oft have heard men say there beSome, that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory; But could they teach forgetfulness, Id learn, and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too. Sad melancholy, that persuades Men from themselves, to think they beHeadless, or other bodys s
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookpublishernewyo, bookyear1897
