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true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities How should he love thee?
THE CATRINE woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay’d on Catrine lee, Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken’d on the e’e. Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, Hersel’ in beauty’s bloom the while; And aye the wild-wood ehoes...
Thou art fair, and few are fairer Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean; They are robes that fit the wearer-- Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion Ever falls and shifts and glances As the life within them dances.
BY yon Castle wa’, at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey: And as he was singing, the tears doon came,— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curved point,—what bitter wrong Can the earth do to us, that we should not long Be here contented?
SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.
To be the father of the fatherless, To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise _His_ offspring, who expired in other days To make thy Sire's sway by a kingdom less,-- _This_ is to be a monarch, and repress Envy into unutterable praise.
did those eyes, instead of fire, With bright, but mild affection shine: Though they might kindle less desire, Love, more than mortal, would be thine. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, _Howe'er_ those orbs _may_ wildly beam, We must...
sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain, And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze, And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain, 'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.
We meet not as we parted, We feel more than all may see; My bosom is heavy-hearted, And thine full of doubt for me:-- One moment has bound the free.
OF rhymes I printed seven volumes-- The list concludes John Murray's columns: Of these there have been few translations For Gallic or Italian nations; And one or two perhaps in German-- But in this last I can't determine.
OUT of the murk of heaviest clouds, Out of the feudal wrecks, and heap’d-up skeletons of kings, Out of that old entire European debris—the shatter’d mummeries, Ruin’d cathedrals, crumble of palaces, tombs of priests, Lo!
Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long, To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
WHETHER upon the garden seat You lounge with your uplifted feet Under the May's whole Heaven of blue; Or whether on the sofa you, No grown up person being by, Do some soft corner occupy; Take you this volume in...
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest, Herein lives wisdom, beauty,...
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
I started Early -- Took my Dog -- And visited the Sea -- The Mermaids in the Basement Came out to look at me --...
THE PROLOGUE. By that the Manciple his tale had ended, The sunne from the south line was descended So lowe, that it was not to my sight Degrees nine-and-twenty as in height.
O MY Luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June: O my Luve’s like the melodie, That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead-- When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
AN old man’s thought of School; An old man, gathering youthful memories and blooms, that youth itself cannot. Now only do I know you! O...
Let not my love be call'd idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
As due by many titles I resign My self to Thee, O God; first I was made By Thee, and for Thee, and when I was decayed Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine; I am Thy son,...