John Wilbye

(7 March 1574 - September 1638 / Brome, Suffolk)

My Throat Is Sore - Poem by John Wilbye

My throat is sore, my voice is hoarse with skriking,
My rests are sighs, deep from the heart’s root fetched;
My song runs all on sharps, and with oft striking
Time on my breast, I shrink with hands outstretched;
Thus still, and still I sing, and ne’er am linning,
For still the close points to my first beginning.


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Poem Submitted: Thursday, May 31, 2012



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