To Jenny Lind
By John Clare
I cannot touch the harp again, And sing another idle lay, To cool a maddening, burning brain, And drive the midnight fiend away. Music, own sister to the soul. Bids roses bloom on cheeks all pale; And sweet her joys and sorrows roll When sings the Swedish Nightingale. * * * * * I cannot touch the harp again; No chords will vibrate on the string; Like broken flowers upon the plain, My heart e'en withers while I sing. Aeolian harps have witching tones, On morning or the evening gale; No melody their music owns As sings the Swedish nightingale.
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"I cannot touch the harp again,..."
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