Sweet sentimentalist, invite
Your bosom’s Power to intercede.
So hard it seems that one must bleed
Because another needs will bite!
All round we find cold Nature slight
The feelings of the totter-knee’d.
O it were pleasant with you
To fly from this tussle of foes,
The shambles, the charnel, the wrinkle!
To dwell in yon dribble of dew
On the cheek of your sovereign rose,
And live the young life of a twinkle.
Similar Posts
We three are on the cedar-shadowed lawn;
Is in the weak rib by a fatal shaftStruck through, and tells his passion’s bashful dawnAnd radiant culmination, glorious crown,When ‘this’ she said: went ‘thus’: most wondrous she.Our eyes grow white, encountering that we are three,Forgetful; then together we look down.But he demands our blessing; is convincedThat words of wedded lovers must bring good.We question;…
Follow me, follow me,
Thro’ the bosky tanglery,Brushwood and bramble!Follow me, follow me,Laugh and leap and scramble!Follow, follow,Hill and hollow,Fosse and burrow,Fen and furrow,Down into the bulrush beds,‘Midst the reeds and osier heads,In the rushy soaking damps,Where the vapours pitch their camps,Follow me, follow me,For a midnight ramble!O! what a mighty fog,What a merry night O ho!Follow, follow, nigher,…
Unhappy poets of a sunken prime!
They shadow you with Homer, knock you flatWith Shakespeare: bludgeons brainingly sublimeOn you the excommunicates of Rhyme,Because you sing not in the living Fat.The wiry whizz of an intrusive gnatIs verse that shuns their self-producing time.Sound them their clocks, with loud alarum trump,Or watches ticking temporal at their fobs,You win their pleased attention. But, bright…
I
Far from Ilion’s hoary wave,Agamemnon’s bridal slaveSpeaks Futurity no more:Death is busy with her grave.IIThick as water, bursts remoteRound her ears the alien din,While her little sullen chinFills the hollows of her throat:Silent lie her slaughter’d kin.IIIOnce to many a pealing shriek,Lo, from Ilion’s topmost tower,Ilion’s fierce prophetic flowerCried the coming of the Greek!Black in…
Night, like a dying mother,
The birds are dreamily piping.And O, my love, my darling!The night is life ebb’d away:Away beyond our reach!A sea that has cast us pale on the beach;Weeds with the weeds and the pebblesThat hear the lone tamarisk rooted in sandSwayWith the song of the sea to the land.
At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.
The Topic over intellectual deepsIn buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:It is in truth a most contagious game:HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name.Such play as this the devils might appal!But here’s the greater wonder; in that we,Enamoured of an acting nought can tire,Each other, like true hypocrites, admire;Warm-lighted…