« PrécédentContinuer »
Whence it rises soft and slow;
Of an ever-lengthening line
Which enwrapped her perfect form
AND who feels discord now or sorrow?
These are the slaves of dim to-morrow,
A GENTLE story of two lovers young
When ye are cold? that love is a light sent
From heaven, which none shall quench, to cheer the innocent?
I AM drunk with the honey wine
And, when 'tis spilt on the summer earth,
They gibber their joy in sleep; for few
YE gentle visitations of calm thought
Moods like the memories of happier earth!
THE world is dreary,
And I am weary
Of wandering on without thee, Mary;
A joy was erewhile
In thy voice and thy smile,
And 'tis gone, when I should be gone too, Mary.
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.
THY little footsteps on the sands
Of a remote and lonely shore;
The twinkling of thine infant hands,
Where now the worm will feed no more:
Thy mingled look of love and glee
Where art thou, my gentle child?
The love of living leaves and weeds,
My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone,
For thine own sake, I cannot follow thee.
WHEN a lover clasps his fairest,
When a mother clasps her child,
ONE sung of thee who left the tale untold,
Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting: Like empty cups of wrought and dædal gold,
Which mock the lips with air when they are
AND where is truth? On tombs? for such to thee Has been my heart-and thy dead memory
Has lain from childhood, many a changeful year, Unchangingly preserved and buried there.
IN the cave which wild weeds cover
It was once a Roman's chamber,
THERE is a warm and gentle atmosphere
As in a tender mist, our spirits are
Wrapped in the . . . of that which is to us The health of life's own life.
How sweet it is to sit and read the tales
Of mighty poets, and to hear the while
Sweet music, which, when the attention fails,
WHAT men gain fairly-that they should possess ;
And children may inherit idleness
From him who earns it. This is understood;
Private injustice may be general good.
But he who gains by base and armed wrong,
Or guilty fraud, or base compliances,
WAKE the serpent not-lest he
From its cradling blue-bell shaken;
ROME has fallen, ye see it lying
Heaped in undistinguished ruin :
THE fitful alternations of the rain,
When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI,
IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY.
IT lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,
Yet it is less the horror than the grace
Are graven, till the characters be grown