#Epigram
Ianthe! you are call’d to cross th… A path forbidden me! Remember, while the Sun his bless… Upon the mountain—heads, How often we have watcht him layin…
Who will away to Athens with me?… Loves choral songs and maidens cro… Unenvious? mount the pinnace; hois… I promise ye, as many as are here, Ye shall not, while ye tarry with…
Life (priest and poet say) is but… I wish no happier one than to be l… Beneath a cool syringa’s scented s… Or wavy willow, by the running str… Brimful of moral, where the dragon…
RHAICOS was born amid the hills… Gnidos the light of Caria is disc… And small are the white—crested th… And smaller onward are the purple… Thence festal choirs were visible,…
IS it not better at an early hour In its calm cell to rest the weary… While birds are singing and while… Than sit the fire out and go starv…
Proud word you never spoke, but yo… Four not exempt from pride some fu… Resting on one white hand a warm w… Over my open volume you will say, 'This man loved me’—then rise and…
Smiles soon abate; the boisterous… Of anger long burst forth; Inconstantly the south—wind blows, But steadily the north. Thy star, O Venus! often changes
Mild is the parting year, and swee… 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 glo…
I COME to visit thee agen, My little flowerless cyclamen; To touch the hand, almost to press… That cheer’d thee in thy lonelines… What could thy careful guardian fi…
I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy!… From the high terraces, at even—ti… To look supine into thy depths of… Thy golden moon between the cliff… Or thy dark spires of fretted cypr…
Why is, and whence, the Po in fla… In consternation do its borderers… Imploring hands to mortal men arou… And Gods above? Are Gods implaca… Or men bereft of sight at such a b…
FOURTH BOOK. The king’s lone road, his visit, h… Were not unknown to Dalica, nor l… The wondrous tale from royal ears… When the young queen had heard who…
THERE falls with every wedding c… A feather from the wing of Time. You pick it up, and say “How fair To look upon its colors are!” Another drops day after day
Sophocles: Thou goest then, and l… Aeschylos: Nay, say not so. Whose is the hand that now is pres… A hand I may not ever press again… What glorious forms hath it brough…