LO! where the four mimosas blend… In calm repose at last is Landor… For ere he slept he saw them plant… By her his soul had ever held most… And he had liv’d enough when he ha…
WHERE art thou gone, light-ankle… With wing at either shoulder, And smile that never left thy mout… Until the Hours grew colder: Then somewhat seem’d to whisper ne…
Nor empty are the honours that we… To the departed; our own hearts ar… Brimfull with grateful reminiscenc… Compassion is excited; the most st… Relent; and better even the best r…
Hyperbion was among the chosen few Of Phoebus; and men honored him a… Honoring in him the God. But othe… As loudly; and the boys as loudly… Hyperbion (more than bard should b…
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
Father: What brought thee back, l… Son: Father! the same feet As took me brought me back, I war… Father: Couldst thou not find the… Son: The deuce himself
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…
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
WHEN Helen first saw wrinkles in… (’T was when some fifty long had s… And intermarried and branch’d off… She threw herself upon her couch a… On this side hung her head, and ov…
Now to Aurora borne by dappled st… The sacred gate of orient pearl an… Smitten with Lucifer’s light silv… Expanded slow to strains of harmon… The waves beneath in purpling rows…
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson, Come and share my haunch of veniso… I have too a bin of claret, Good, but better when you share it… Tho’ 'tis only a small bin,
With much ado you fail to tell The requisites for writing well; But, what bad writing is, you quit… Have proved by every line you writ…
Life (priest and poet say) is but… I wish no happier one than to be l… Beneath some cool syringa’s scente… Or wavy willow, by the running str… Brimful of Moral, where the Drago…
The Year’s twelve daughters had i… Of measured pace tho’ varying mien… Some froward, some sedater, some a… For festival, some reckless of att… The snow had left the mountain—top…
MILD is the parting year, and sw… 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…
