Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.
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THE MOTHER of the Muses, we are taught,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to singAbout the summer days, my loves of old.Alas! alas! is all I can reply.Memory has left with me that name alone,Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,But her bright image in my darkest hourComes back, in vain comes back, call’d or uncall’d.Forgotten are the names of visitorsReady to…
MILD is the parting year, and sweet
Life passes on more rudely fleet,And balmless is its closing day.I wait its close, I court its gloom,But mourn that never must there fallOr on my breast or on my tombThe tear that would have soothed it all.
BLYTHE bell, that calls to bridal halls,
The very shower that feeds the flowerWeeps also its decay.
I strove with none; for none was worth my strife,
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Past ruined Ilion Helen lives,
Verse calls them forth; ’tis verse that givesImmortal youth to mortal maids.Soon shall oblivion’s deepening veilHide all the peopled hills you see,The gay, the proud, while lovers hailThese many summers you and me.
THE TONGUE of England, that which myriads
Hereafter, but two mighty men stand forthAbove the flight of ages, two alone;One crying out,All nations spoke through me.The other:True; and through this trumpet burst God’s word; the fall of Angels, and the doomFirst of immortal, then of mortal, Man.Glory! be glory! not to me, to God.