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To His Lute



My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle, still her loss complain.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

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William Henry Drummond

William Henry Drummond April 13 1854 April 6 1907 was an Irish-born Canadian poet He was elected a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature of the United Kingdom in 1898 and a fellow of the Royal Society of Canada in 1899 more…

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    "To His Lute" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 19 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/40751/to-his-lute>.

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