#Romantic
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…
To my ninth decade I have tottere… And no soft arm bends now my steps… She, who once led me where she wou… So when he calls me, Death shall…
O’erfoaming with rage The foul—mouth’d judge Page Thus question’d a thief in the doc… “Didst never hear read In the church, lump of lead!
On, for the spirit of that matchle… Whom Nature led throughout her wh… While he embodied breathed etheria… Though panting in the play—hour of… I drank of Avon too, a dangerous…
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,
One lovely name adorns my song, And, dwelling in the heart, Forever falters at the tongue, And trembles to depart.
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 retu… And why the wish! the pure and ble…
Why, why repine, my pensive friend… At pleasures slipp’d away? Some the stern Fates will never l… And all refuse to stay. I see the rainbow in the sky,
Here, ever since you went abroad, If there be change, no change I s… I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walkt by me. Yes; I forgot; a change there is;
ALAS, how soon the hours are ove… Counted us out to play the lover! And how much narrower is the stage Allotted us to play the sage! But when we play the fool, how wid…
An ancient chestnut’s blossoms thr… Their heavy odour over two: Leucippe, it is said, was one; The other, then, was Alciphron. ‘Come, come! why should we stand b…
BLYTHE bell, that calls to brid… Tolls deep a darker day; The very shower that feeds the flo… Weeps also its decay.
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,…
YES; I write verses now and then… But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talk’d of by young men As rather clever; In the last quarter are my eyes,
