Children are what the mothers are. No fondest father’s fondest care Can fashion so the infant heart As those creative beams that dart, With all their hopes and fears, upon The cradle of a sleeping son. His startled eyes with wonder see A father near him on his knee, Who wishes all the while to trace The mother in his future face; But ’t is to her alone uprise His waking arms; to her those eyes Open with joy and not surprise.
First bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen In all her purity heaven’s virgin queen, Alone hath felt true beauty; bring me then Titian, ennobler of the noblest men; And next the sweet Correggio, nor chastise His little Cupids for those wicked eyes. I want not Rubens’s pink puffy bloom, Nor...
There is delight in singing, though none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, though the praiser sit alone And see the praised far off him, far above. Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world’s, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was...
The Dreamy rhymer’s measured snore Falls heavy on our ears no more; And by long strides are left behind The dear delights of womankind, Who wage their battles like their loves, In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, And have achieved the crowning work When they have trussed and skewered a Turk....
How many verses have I thrown Into the fire because the one Peculiar word, the wanted most, Was irrecoverably lost!
THE Wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies, And love to hear them told; Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one,— Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. I never sat among The choir of Wisdom’s song, But pretty...
