All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,
Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold.
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I held her hand, the pledge of bliss,
She bent her head before my kiss…My heart was sure that hers was true.Now I have told her I must part,She shakes my hand, she bids adieu,Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart!Hers never was the heart for you.
THE leaves are falling; so am I;
So have I too.Scarcely on any bough is heardJoyous, or even unjoyous, birdThe whole wood through.Winter may come: he brings but nigherHis circle (yearly narrowing) to the fireWhere old friends meet.Let him; now heaven is overcast,And spring and summer both are past,And all things sweet.
To my ninth decade I have tottered on,
She, who once led me where she would, is gone,So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
In Clementina’s artless mien
And are the roses of sixteenEnough for me?Lucilla asks, if that be all,Have I not cull’d as sweet before:Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fallI still deplore.I now behold another scene,Where Pleasure beams with Heaven’s own light,More pure, more constant, more serene,And not less bright.Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,Whose chain of flowers no force…
“ARTEMIDORA! Gods invisible,
Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet,And stand beside thee, ready to conveyThy weary steps where other rivers flow.Refreshing shades will waft thy wearinessAway, and voices like thine own come nigh,Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace.”Artemidora sigh’d, and would have press’dThe hand now pressing hers, but was too weak.Fate’s shears were over her dark hair…
Age
Death, tho’ I see him not, is nearAnd grudges me my eightieth year.Now, I would give him all these lastFor one that fifty have run past.Ah! he strikes all things, all alike,But bargains: those he will not strike.