Walter Savage Landor

“Do you remember me? or are you proud?” Lightly advancing thro’ her star-trimm’d crowd, Ianthe said, and lookt into my eyes, “A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory Where you but once have

Here, ever since you went abroad, If there be change, no change I see, I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walkt by me. Yes; I forgot; a change there is;

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed, By every word and smile deceived. Another man would hope no more; Nor hope I what I hoped before: But let not this last wish be vain;

MILD is the parting year, and sweet The odour of the falling spray; Life passes on more rudely fleet, And balmless is its closing day. I wait its close, I court its gloom, But

The Year’s twelve daughters had in turn gone by, Of measured pace tho’ varying mien all twelve, Some froward, some sedater, some adorn’d For festival, some reckless of attire. The snow had left the

From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass Like little ripples down a sunny river; Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer’s lusty arms expires; And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,

Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throes Of anger long burst forth; Inconstantly the south-wind blows, But steadily the north. Thy star, O Venus! often changes Its radiant seat above, The chilling pole-star never ranges

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks, and I am ready to

THE leaves are falling; so am I; The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; So have I too. Scarcely on any bough is heard Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird The whole wood

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife: Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art: I warm’d both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks; and I am ready to

HERE, ever since you went abroad, If there be change no change I see: I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walk’d by me. Yes; I forgot; a change there is

When the buds began to burst, Long ago, with Rose the First I was walking; joyous then Far above all other men, Till before us up there stood Britonferry’s oaken wood, Whispering, “Happy as

In spring and summer winds may blow, And rains fall after, hard and fast; The tender leaves, if beaten low, Shine but the more for shower and blast But when their fated hour arrives,

Very true, the linnets sing Sweetest in the leaves of spring: You have found in all these leaves That which changes and deceives, And, to pine by sun or star, Left them, false ones

To my ninth decade I have tottered on, And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady; She, who once led me where she would, is gone, So when he calls me, Death

Tell me not what too well I know About the bard of Sirmio. Yes, in Thalia’s son Such stains there are-as when a Grace Sprinkles another’s laughing face With nectar, and runs on.

Struggling, and faint, and fainter didst thou wane, O Moon! and round thee all thy starry train Came forth to help thee, with half-open eyes, And trembled every one with still surprise, That the

WHY, why repine, my pensive friend, At pleasures slipp’d away? 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 entreat you, Alfred Tennyson, Come and share my haunch of venison. I have too a bin of claret, Good, but better when you share it. Tho’ ’tis only a small bin, There’s a

Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thy urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot, Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return! And why the wish! the pure and blest

Years, many parti-colour’d years, Some have crept on, and some have flown Since first before me fell those tears I never could see fall alone. Years, not so many, are to come, Years not