No vain red roses strew I at thy feet,
Emblems of grief and thee, with reverent hands.
Mine is no madrigal of passionate joy,
Or orison of aught less chaste than tears.
Ruth on thy brow sits fairest. Its annoy
Rends not thy beauty’s raiment, nor the years.
In thy shut lips what secrets! Who am I
Should seek a sign at that dread sanctuary?
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In the Beaulieu woods, and how I made my peace?It was your thirtieth birthday, and you threwStones like a school–girl at the chestnut trees.The heavens were light above us and the breeze.Your Corydon and all the merry crewHad wandered to a distance, busier beesThan we, who cared not where the hazels grew.We were alone at…
Nay, dear one, ask me not to leave thee yet.
Too soon it is to bid me to forgetThe joys I was so late to understand.The future holds but a blank face for me,The past is all confused with tears and grey,But the sweet present, while thy smiles I see,Is perfect sunlight, an unclouded day.Speak not of parting, not at least this hour,Though well I…
Who has not seen the falls of Tivoli,
Fair ruined temples which adorn the hill?Who has not sat and listened to the shrillSweet melody of blackbirds, and the roarOf Anio’s voice rebounding from the shore,Nor would have given his very soul to greetSome passing vision of a white nymph’s feet,And waving arms, as the wild chasm’s sprayBeat on his face, for ever answering…
Care killed a cat, and I have cares at home,
The things I love have all grown wearisome;The things that loved me are estranged or dead.I have a house most fair, but tenantedWith shadows only, gardens of tall trees,Fenced in and made secure from every dreadBut this one terror, my soul’s lack of ease.I have much wealth of pleasure, horse and hound,Woods broad for sport,…
Love in the summer hills,
And kisses sweet to cheatOur idle tears away.What else has Time in store,Till Life shall close the door?Still let me sing love’s lore,Come sorrow when it may.Rain on the weeping hills,With Death to end our ills,And only thought unsoughtTo point our joys’ decay.Oh Life is wounded soreAnd Grief’s mad waters roar.Yet will I love once…
I stopped, I listened, and I entered in,
“The Booth of Beauty,” ’twas a name of sinWhich seemed to promise a new mystery.There was a crowd already in the place,And ‘twixt me and the stage, now darkly hid,The gathering evening had come down apace,And all was dim within and overspread.I know not by what instinct or mute proofOf Providence it was, but this…