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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=538449" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To His Lute</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=538449" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow<br>With thy green mother in some shady grove,<br>When immelodious winds but made thee move,<br>And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.<br>Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,<br>Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,<br>Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,<br>What art thou but a harbinger of woe?<br>Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,<br>But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;<br>Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;<br>For which be silent as in woods before:<br>Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,<br>Like widowed turtle, still her loss complain.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=William+Henry+Drummond">William Henry Drummond</a></strong></div>

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