For what you are, you cannot have:
‘Tis I, that have one since I first had you!
_____________
I have heard of reasons manifold
Why Love must needs be blind,
But this the best of all I hold–
His eyes are in his mind.
What outward form and feature are
He guesseth but in part;
But what within is good and fair
He seeth with the heart.
Similar Posts
On the wide level of a mountain’s head,
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out-spread,Two lovely children run an endless race,A sister and a brother !This far outstripp’d the other ;Yet ever runs she with reverted face,And looks and listens for the boy behind :[Image] For he, alas ! is blind !O’er rough and smooth with even step he passed,And knows not whether he…
Author.
And such a feeding calm its presence shed,A tender love so pure from earthly leavenThat I unnethe the fancy might control,‘Twas my own spirit newly come from heavenWooing its gentle way into my soul!But ah! the change — It had not stirred, and yetAlas! that change how fain would I forget?That shrinking back, like one…
My pensive SARA ! thy soft cheek reclined
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrownWith white-flower’d Jasmin, and the broad-leav’d Myrtle,(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !)And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,Slow saddenning round, and mark the star of eveSerenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scentsSnatch’d from yon bean-field ! and the…
As when a child on some long winter’s night
With eager wond’ring and perturbed delightListens strange tales of fearful dark decreesMuttered to wretch by necromantic spell;Or of those hags, who at the witching timeOf murky midnight ride the air sublime,And mingle foul embrace with fiends of Hell:Cold Horror drinks its blood! Anon the tearMore gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tellOf pretty babes, that…
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
And I fear, I fear, My Master dear !We shall have a deadly storm.Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence————————————— ————————————IWell ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who madeThe grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,This night, so tranquil now, will not go henceUnroused by winds, that ply a busier tradeThan those which mould yon cloud in…
Edmund! thy grave with aching eye I scan,
‘Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth,If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of truth,We force to start amid her feigned caressVice, siren-hag! in native ugliness,A brother’s fate will haply rouse the tear:Onward we move in heaviness and fear!But if our fond hearts call to pleasure’s bowerSome pigmy folly in a careless hour,The faithless guest…