When I thy singing next shall hear,
I'll wish I might turn all to ear,
To drink-in notes and numbers, such
As blessed souls can't hear too much
Then melted down, there let me lie
Entranced, and lost confusedly;
And by thy music strucken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a Lute.
Upon Julia's Voice
Robert Herrick
(1)
Poem topics: lost, music, drink, hear, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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