This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day,
I bring palm branches, found upon my way:
But these will wither; thine shall never die,—
The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!
Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
Older in wisdom than my gray compeers!
We doubt and tremble,—we, with bated breath,
Talk of this mystery of life and...
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Green blood fresh pulsing through the trees,
Blacks buds, that sun and shower distend;
All other things begin anew,
But I must end.Warm sunlight on faint-colored sward,
Warm fragrance in the breezes’ breath;
For other things art heat and life,
For me is death. -
Moan, moan, ye dying gales!
The saddest of your tales
Is not so sad as life;
Nor have you e’er began
A theme so wild as man,
Or with such sorrow rife.Fall, fall, thou withered leaf!
Autumn sears not like grief,
Nor kills such lovely flowers;
More terrible the storm,
More mournful the deform,
When... -
Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my... -
From “The Spanish Gypsy”
DAY is dying! Float, O song,
Down the westward river,
Requiem chanting to the Day,—
Day, the mighty Giver.Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds,
Melted rubies sending
Through the river and the sky,
Earth and heaven bleeding;All the long-drawn earthy banks
Up to cloud-land... -
I.
the Plain was grassy, wild and bare,
Wide, wild and open to the air,
Which had built up everywhere
An under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the river ran,
Adown it floated a dying swan,
And loudly did lament.
It was the middle of the day.
Ever the weary wind went on,
And took the reed-tops as it... -
[Supposed to be written in India, while the plague was raging, and playing havoc among the British residents and troops stationed there.]
WE meet ’neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;
As they shout to our peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
We drink to our comrades... -
The daylight is dying
Away in the west,
The wild birds are flying
In silence to rest;
In leafage and frondage
Where shadows are deep,
They pass to its bondage --
The kingdom of sleep.
And watched in their sleeping
By stars in the height,
They rest in...The sun kept setting, setting still ;
No hue of afternoon
Upon the village I perceived, —
From house to house 't was noon.
The dusk kept dropping, dropping still ;
No dew upon the grass,
But only on my forehead stopped...Dying at my music!
Bubble! Bubble!
Hold me till the Octave's run!
Quick! Burst the Windows!
Ritardando!
Phials left, and the Sun!