LONG-EXPECTED one and twenty Ling’ring year at last has flown, Pomp and pleasure, pride and plenty Great Sir John, are all your own. Loosen’d from the minor’s tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather Bid the slaves of thrift farewell. Call the Betty’s, Kate’s, and Jenny’s Ev’ry name […]
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! For the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of
I marvel how Nature could ever find space for so many strange contrasts in one human face: There’s thought and no thought, and there’s paleness and bloom and bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. There’s weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; such strength as, if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper
The snow falls deep; the forest lies alone; The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes, Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back; The gypsy knocks his hands and tucks them up, And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow, Beneath the oak which breaks away the wind, And bushes close in
I do not understand this child Though we have lived together now In the same house for years. I know Nothing of him, so try to build Up a relationship from how He was when small. Yet have I killed The seed I spent or sown it where The land in his and none of
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,
O King of terrors, whose unbounded sway All that have life must certainly obey; The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine, Nor would ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline. My name is on thy roll, and sure I must Increase thy gloomy kingdom in the dust. My soul at this no apprehension
Just like as in a nest of boxes round, Degrees of sizes in each box are found: So, in this world, may many others be Thinner and less, and less still by degree: Although they are not subject to our sense, A world may be no bigger than two-pence. Nature is curious, and such works
As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near, And inward ripeness doth much
Take, oh, take those lips away That so sweetly were forsworn And those eyes, like break of day, Lights that so mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, though sealed in vain. Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king, Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds sing: Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this
Are they shadows that we see? And can shadows pleasure give? Pleasures only shadows be Cast by bodies we conceive And are made the things we deem In those figures which they seem. But these pleasures vanish fast Which by shadows are expressed; Pleasures are not, if they last; In their passing is their best.
Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air, Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair. Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me; Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me. Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning; Make not my glad cause of mourning. Let not my beauty’s fire Inflame
Weep you no more, sad fountains; What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven’s sun doth gently waste. But my sun’s heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lie sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets. Doth not the sunrise smiling When