John Milton (1638)

Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more

ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,

and with forced fingers rude

shatter your leaves before mellowing year.

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear

compels me to disturb your season due;

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,

young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew

himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

He must not float upon his wat’ry bier

unwept, and welter to the parching wind, without the meed of some melodies tear.


Categories: Literature