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By Andrew Marvell Submitted by chris Date: 2002 Nov 24 Comment on this Work [[2002.11.24.22.40.24400]] |
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i Ye living Lamps, by whose dear light The Nightingale does sit so late, And studying all the Summer-night, Her matchless Songs does meditate; ii Ye Country Comets, that portend No War, nor Princes funeral, Shining unto no higher end Then to presage the Grasses fall; iii Ye Glo-worms, whose officious Flame To wandring Mowers shows the way, That in the Night have lost their aim, And after foolish Fires do stray; iv Your courteous Lights in vain you wast, Since Juliana here is come, For She my Mind hath so displac'd That I shall never find my home. |