On His Eightieth Birthday
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
Remain!
REMAIN, ah not in youth alone! Tho’ youth, where you are, long will stay But when my summer days are gone, And my autumnal haste away. ‘Can I be always by your side?’ No;
On Catullus
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.
Of Clementina
In Clementina’s artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me? Lucilla asks, if that be all, Have I not cull’d as sweet before: Ah yes,
On An Eclipse Of The Moon
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
Rose Aylmer
Ah, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night
Resignation
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;
Corinna, from Athens, to Tanagra
Tanagra! think not I forget Thy beautifully-storey’d streets; Be sure my memory bathes yet In clear Thermodon, and yet greets The blythe and liberal shepherd boy, Whose sunny bosom swells with joy When we
I Entreat You, Alfred Tennyson
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
Alciphron and Leucippe
An ancient chestnut’s blossoms threw Their heavy odour over two: Leucippe, it is said, was one; The other, then, was Alciphron. ‘Come, come! why should we stand beneath?’ This hollow tree’s unwholesome breath?’ Said
Child of a Day
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
The Maid's Lament
I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I check’d him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to
Years
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
To Zoл
Against the groaning mast I stand, The Atlantic surges swell, To bear me from my native land And Zoл’s wild farewell. From billow upon billow hurl’d I can yet hear her say, ‘And is