Here you will find the Poem The Solitary Lyre of poet George Darley
Wherefore, unlaurell'd Boy, Whom the contemptuous Muse will not inspire, With a sad kind of joy Still sing'st thou to thy solitary lyre? The melancholy winds Pour through unnumber'd reeds their idle woes, And every Naiad finds A stream to weep her sorrow as it flows. Her sighs unto the air The Wood-maid's native oak doth broadly tell, And Echo's fond despair Intelligible rocks re-syllable. Wherefore then should not I, Albeit no haughty Muse my heart inspire, Fated of grief to die, Impart it to my solitary lyre?
