Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel

My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
O, if you felt the pain I feel!
But O, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true—
All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.

More poems by Walter Savage Landor

Rose Aylmer

Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace! …
Alciphron and Leucippe

an ancient chestnut's blossoms threw
Their heavy odour over two:
Leucippe, it is said, was one; …
Art Criticism

First bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen
In all her purity heaven’s virgin queen,
Alone hath felt true beauty; bring me then …
Autumn

Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet, …