Shakespeare and Milton—what third blazoned name
Shall lips of after-ages link to these?
His who, beside the wild encircling seas,
Was England’s voice, her voice with one acclaim,
For three score years; whose word of praise was fame,
Whose scorn gave...
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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The Folk who lived in Shakespeare’s day
And saw that gentle figure pass
By London Bridge, his frequent way—
They little knew what man he was.The pointed beard, the courteous mien,
The equal port to high and low,
All this they saw or might have... -
Beneath the warrior’s helm, behold
The flowing tresses of the woman!
Minerva, Pallas, what you will—
A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.Minerva? No! ’t is some sly minx
In cousin’s helmet masquerading;
If not—then Wisdom was a dame... -
“A note
All out of tune in this world’s instrument.”
—AMY LEVY.I KNOW not in what fashion she was made,
Nor what her voice was, when she used to speak,
Nor if the silken lashes threw a shade
On wan or rosy... -
I Leave behind me the elm-shadowed square
And carven portals of the silent street,
And wander on with listless, vagrant feet
Through seaward-leading alleys, till the air
Smells of the sea, and straightway then the care
Slips from my heart, and life once... -
The Rain has ceased, and in my room
The sunshine pours an airy flood;
And on the church’s dizzy vane
The ancient Cross is bathed in blood.From out the dripping ivy-leaves,
Antiquely carven, gray and high,
A dormer, facing westward, looks... -
We knew it would rain, for all the morn
A spirit on slender ropes of mist
Was lowering its golden buckets down
Into the vapory amethystOf marshes and swamps and dismal fens—
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,
Dipping the jewels out... -
(Spanish Air)
GOOD-NIGHT! I have to say good-night
To such a host of peerless things!
Good-night unto the slender hand
All queenly with its weight of rings;
Good-night to fond, uplifted eyes,
Good-night to chestnut braids of hair,
Good-night... -
I.
have you not heard the poets tell
How came the dainty Baby Bell
Into this world of ours?
The gates of heaven were left ajar:
With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
Wandering out of Paradise,
She saw this planet, like a star,
Hung in... -
To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse—all else withhold—
That I may not write verse when I am old.And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;...