Little Aglaë

Father! the little girl we see
Is not, I fancy, so like me;
You never hold her on your knee.

When she came home, the other day,
You kissd her; but I cannot say            
She kissd you first and ran away.

Walter Savage Landor

Walter Savage Landor was an English writer, poet, and dramatist. He is best known for his prose work, the 'Imaginary Conversations,' but also wrote numerous poems and plays. Landor had a tempestuous character and often found himself in conflict with authorities and contemporaries. Despite his combative nature, he was highly regarded by other literary figures such as Charles Dickens and Robert Browning. His works reflect his classical education and strong individualism.

Walter Savage Landor

The Evening Star

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Do You Remember Me? Or Are You Proud?

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Remain!

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Autumn

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

English

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Dear Little Ethel.

Dear little Ethel,
    Child that I love,
Come, as an angel,
    Down from above.

Golden-rayed tresses,
    Shining and bright,
Inviting caresses,
    Mirroring light.

Eyes blue and tender,
    Beaming with joy.
Who would offend her?
    Who would annoy?

Ripple thy laughter!
    Bubble thy glee!
Loud will the rafter
    Echo to thee.

Clinging to mother,
    Set on her knee;
She has no other
    Dearer than thee.

Slave thou hast bound her;
    Nestles thine arm,
Twining around her,
    Telling thy charm.

Innocent speeches
    Silencing strife;
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Wilfred Skeats

With rosy hand a little girl prest down

With rosy hand a little girl prest down
A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill:
Often as they sprang up again, a frown
Show'd she disliked resistance to her will:
But when they droopt their heads and shone much less,
She shook them to and fro, and threw them by,
And tript away. 'Ye loathe the heaviness
Ye love to cause, my little girls!' thought I,
'And what had shone for you, by you must die.'

Walter Savage Landor

Cowslips

With rosy hand a little girl pressd down
A boss of fresh-culld cowslips in a rill:
Often as they sprang up again, a frown
Showd she dislikd resistance to her will:
But when they droopd their heads and shone much less,
She shook them to and fro, and threw them by,
And trippd away. Ye loathe the heaviness
Ye love to cause, my little girls! thought I,
And what has shone for you, by you must die!

Walter Savage Landor

The Wonder-Child

'Our little babe,' each said, 'shall be
Like unto thee' - 'Like unto thee!'
'Her mother's' - 'Nay, his father's' - 'eyes,'
'Dear curls like thine' - but each replies,
'As thine, all thine, and nought of me.'

What sweet solemnity to see
The little life upon thy knee,
And whisper as so soft it lies, -
'Our little babe!'

For, whether it be he or she,
A David or a Dorothy,
'As mother fair,' or 'father wise,'
Both when it's 'good,' and when it cries,
One thing is certain, - it will be
Our little babe.

Richard Le Gallienne

Faesulan Idyl

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want;
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurs...

Walter Savage Landor

Alciphron And Leucippe

An ancient chestnuts blossoms threw
Their heavy odour over two:
Leucippe, it is said, was one;
The other, then, was Alciphron.
Come, come! why should we stand beneath?
This hollow trees unwholesome breath?
Said Alciphron, heres not a blade
Of grass or moss, and scanty shade.
Come; it is just the hour to rove
In the lone dingle shepherds love;
There, straight and tall, the hazel twig
Divides the crookàed rock-held fig,
Oer the blue pebbles where the rill
In winter runs and may run still.
Come then, while fresh and calm the air,
And while the shepherds are not there.

Leucippe.    But I would rather go when they
                    Sit round about and sing and play.
                    Then why so hurry me? for you
                  ...

Walter Savage Landor