Who idly look to other skies,
Expecting life by other ways.
Amidst such boundless wealth without,
I only still am poor within,
The birds have sung their summer out,
But still my spring does not begin.
Shall I then wait the autumn wind,
Compelled to seek a milder day,
And leave no curious nest behind,
No woods still echoing to my lay?
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Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;
–RaleighThe full-orbed moon with unchanged rayMounts up the eastern sky,Not doomed to these short nights for aye,But shining steadily.She does not wane, but my fortune,Which her rays do not bless,My wayward path declineth soon,But she shines not the less.And if she faintly glimmers here,And paled is her light,Yet alway in her proper sphereShe’s mistress of…
Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
within him, and he becomes immortal with herimmortality. From time to time she claimskindredship with us, and some globulefrom her veins steals up into our own.I am the autumnal sun,With autumn gales my race is run;When will the hazel put forth its flowers,Or the grape ripen under my bowers?When will the harvest or the hunter’s…
Whate’er we leave to God, God does,
The work we choose should be our own,God leaves alone.If with light head erect I sing,Though all the Muses lend their force,From my poor love of anything,The verse is weak and shallow as its source.But if with bended neck I gropeListening behind me for my wit,With faith superior to hope,More anxious to keep back than…
I think awhile of Love, and while I think,
Sole meat and sweetest drink,And close connecting linkTween heaven and earth.I only know it is, not how or why,My greatest happiness;However hard I try,Not if I were to die,Can I explain.I fain would ask my friend how it can be,But when the time arrives,Then Love is more lovelyThan anything to me,And so I’m dumb.For if…
Here lies the body of this world,
This golden youth long since was past,Its silver manhood went as fast,An iron age drew on at last;‘Tis vain its character to tell,The several fates which it befell,What year it died, when ’twill arise,We only know that here it lies.
Low-anchored cloud,
Fountain head and source of rivers,Dew-cloth, dream drapery,And napkin spread by fays;Drifting meadow of the air,Where bloom the dasied banks and violets,And in whose fenny labyrinthThe bittern booms and heron wades;Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers,Bear only purfumes and the scentOf healing herbs to just men’s fields!