Ravished lute, sing to her virgin ears,   
Soft notes thy strings repeating;
Plucked harp, whose amorous song she hears,   
Tell her the time is fleeting;
Night-tide and my distress of love
O speak, sweet numbers,
That pity her heart may move
Before she slumbers.

Pale moth, that from the moon doth fly,   
Fickle enchantments weaving,
Night faery, come my lady nigh
When the rich masques are leaving;   
Tell her who lieth still alone
Love is a treasure
Fair as the frail lute’s tone
And perished measure.

  • Robert Fitzgerald, “Song after Campion” from Spring Shade: Poems 1931-1970. Copyright © 1969 by Robert Fitzgerald. Used by the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

  • Source: Spring Shade: Poems 1931-1970 (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1971)

Poet Bio

What People are Saying

"I do Poetry Out Loud because the everyday me is very shy and easily stumbles over words, mangling meaning and botching simple conversations. Yet, when I recite poetry it is an opportunity for me to become someone else––an embodiment of the poem. Slowly, step by step, I think Poetry Out Loud is helping me to become a braver, more confident person, even if I still tremble when I get on stage."
Rose Horowitz
2016 ME POL Champion