The Dragon-Fly
Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream; I wish no happier one than to be laid Beneath a cool syringa’s scented shade, Or wavy willow, by the running stream, Brimful of moral,
On His Seventy-fifth Birthday
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
Verse
Past ruined Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades. Verse calls them forth; ’tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids. Soon shall oblivion’s deepening veil Hide all the peopled hills you
Late Leaves
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
Proud Word You Never Spoke
Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, Over my open volume you will say, ‘This
Dying Speech of an Old Philosopher
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
Twenty Years Hence
Twenty years hence my eyes may grow If not quite dim, yet rather so, Still yours from others they shall know Twenty years hence. Twenty years hence though it may hap That I be
Absence
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
Ianthe's Question
вЂDo you remember me? or are you proud? ’ Lightly advancing thro’ her star-trimm’d crowd, Ianthe said, and look’d into my eyes. ВЂA yes, a yes to both: for Memory Where you but once
The Three Roses
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
Lately our poets
Lately our poets loiter’d in green lanes, Content to catch the ballads of the plains; I fancied I had strength enough to climb A loftier station at no distant time, And might securely from
In spring and summer winds may blow
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,
Separation
THERE is a mountain and a wood between us, Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen us Morning and noon and eventide repass. Between us now the mountain and the wood Seem
Very True, the Linnets Sing
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
Well I Remember How You Smiled
Well I remember how you smiled To see me write your name upon The soft sea-sand. . . “O! what a child! You think you’re writing upon stone!” I have since written what no