There are harps that complain to the presence of night,
To the presence of night alone—
In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky,
And breathed out a blessing—and...
|
Two armies covered hill and plain, The summer clouds lay pitched like tents |
Enchantress, touch no more that strain! |
Jubilant the music through the fields a-ringing,— |
When stars pursue their solemn flight, Or lovers... |
It trembled off the keys,—a parting kiss |
My body answers you, my blood Not mine by birth. Yet have I... |
I Saw not they were strange, the ways I roam, If I might follow... |
“A note I KNOW not in what fashion she was made, |
From “King Henry Eighth,” Act III. Sc. 1. ORPHEUS, with his lute, made trees, |