Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings,
They who have coveted may covet now.
Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape uncrush’d,
The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature,
Where every voice (but bird’s or child’s) is hush’d,
And every thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure.
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Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
Beneath some cool syringa’s scented shadeOr wavy willow, by the running stream,Brimful of Moral, where the Dragon FlyWanders as careless and content as I.Thanks for this fancy, insect king,Of purple crest and filmy wing,Who with indifference givest upThe water-lily’s golden cup,To come again and overlookWhat I am writing in my book.Believe me, most who read…
WHY, why repine, my pensive friend,
Some the stern Fates will never lend,And all refuse to stay.I see the rainbow in the sky,The dew upon the grass;I see them, and I ask not whyThey glimmer or they pass.With folded arms I linger notTo call them back; ’twere vain:In this, or in some other spot,I know they’ll shine again.
TO turn my volumes o’er nor find
Some vestige of an erring mindTo chide or discommend,Believe that all were lov’d like youWith love from blame exempt,Believe that all my griefs were trueAnd all my joys but dreamt.
‘Do you remember me? or are you proud?’
Ianthe said, and look’d into my eyes.‘A yes, a yes to both: for MemoryWhere you but once have been must ever be,And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.’
Why is, and whence, the Po in flames? and why
Imploring hands to mortal men aroundAnd Gods above? Are Gods implacable?Or men bereft of sight at such a blaze?Apollo hath no more a son; his breathIs stifled, and smoke only fills the airWhere once was fire, and men to men were true.Fierce ones and faithless now approach the waste,Who look transversely with an evil eye,And…
THERE falls with every wedding chime
You pick it up, and say “How fairTo look upon its colors are!”Another drops day after dayUnheeded; not one word you say.When bright and dusky are blown past,Upon the hearse there nods the last.