of my making, all the good and
some of the bad, yet of yourself;
sole, unique, strong, alone,
whole, independent, one: yet mine
in that you cannot be unfaithful.
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So breaks the sun earth’s rugged chains,
So grows both stream and source of price,That lately fettered were with ice.So naked trees get crisped heads,And colored coats the roughest meads,And all get vigor, youth, and sprite,That are but looked on by his light.
FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,My part is ended on thy stage.Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fearAs little as I hope from thee:I know thou canst not show nor bearMore hatred than thou hast to me.My tender, first, and simple yearsThou didst abuse and then betray;Since stir’d’st up jealousies and fears,When all the causes…
Walking, snow falling, it is possible
in turn on separate flakes, sharply engagethe attention at several spatial points:the nearer cold and more uncomfortable,the farther distanced and almost pleasing.Living, time passing, it is preferableto focus the memory in turn uponthe more distant retrospects in orderthat the present mind may retain its peace.Yet knowing that seeing and rememberingare both of course personal illusions.
In the ember days of my last free summer,
the gross body eating a poor curry:satisfied at what I have done, scared of whatI have to do in my last free winter.
I have no children:
in which a small child,my daughter, appeared at the doorof a half-lit roomwhere late one night I wroteat a heavy desk.And though interruptionwas hardly welcomeI took her to myself,just as the poem,comforted this daughteruntil she found peace.The poems as the childrencome as they will come.
Come, my Celia, let us prove
Time will not be ours forever,He at length our good will sever.Spend not then his gifts in vain;Suns that set may rise again,But if once we lose this light,‘Tis with us perpetual night.Why should we defer our joys?Fame and rumour are but toys.Cannot we delude the eyesOf a few poor household spies?Or his easier ears…