| | ..Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount..
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs!
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers;
Fall grief in showers;
Our beauties are not ours. O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.
..Ben Jonson..
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| | Posted 8/10/2008 7:19 PM - 26 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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