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; And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse, I beg you very gently break the news.
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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 pause to man’s iniquities. What strain... |
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 seen— But not the light behind the brow! The... |
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 For sonnets and for serenading! I thought the goddess... |
“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 cheek. I picture her with sorrowful vague eyes... |
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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 more is sweet. At the lane’s ending lie... |
