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.<br /><br />William Drummond (of Hawthornden)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-his-lute-3/
