Pleasure
A Short Poem or Else Not Say I True pleasure breathes not city air, Nor in Art’s temples dwells, In palaces and towers where The voice of Grandeur dwells. No! Seek it where high
Regret
Long ago I wished to leave ” The house where I was born; ” Long ago I used to grieve, My home seemed so forlorn. In other years, its silent rooms Were filled with
On The Death Of Anne Bronte
There’s little joy in life for me, And little terror in the grave; I’ve lived the parting hour to see Of one I would have died to save. Calmly to watch the failing breath,
Life
LIFE, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower
Parting
THERE’S no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part: There’s such a thing as keeping A remembrance in one’s heart: There’s such a thing as dwelling On the thought ourselves have nurs’d,
The Missionary
Lough, vessel, plough the British main, Seek the free ocean’s wider plain; Leave English scenes and English skies, Unbind, dissever English ties; Bear me to climes remote and strange, Where altered life, fast-following change,
Evening Solace
THE human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed. And days may pass in gay confusion, And