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
Entranc'd and lost confusedly,
And by thy music stricken mute,
Die and be turn'd into a lute.
Again
Robert Herrick
(1)
Poem topics: lost, music, drink, hear, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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