Sonnet.

To a Lady who wrote under my likeness as Juliet, "Lieti giorni e felice."

Whence should they come, lady! those happy days
That thy fair hand and gentle heart invoke
Upon my head?    Alas! such do not rise
On any, of the many, who with sighs
Bear through this journey-land of wo, life's yoke.
The light of such lives not in thine own lays;
Such were not hers, that girl, so fond, so fair,
Beneath whose image thou hast traced thy pray'r.
Evil, and few, upon this darksome earth,
Must be the days of all of mortal birth;
Then why not mine?    Sweet lady! wish again,
Not more of joy to me, but less of pain;
Calm slumber, when life's troubled hours are past,
And with thy friendship cheer them while they last.

Frances Anne Kemble

Frances Anne Kemble, also known as Fanny, was a notable British actress and writer born on November 27, 1809, and died on January 15, 1893. She was a prominent figure in the 19th century literary and theatrical circles. Kemble was known for her acting prowess and her detailed journals and memoirs, which provide valuable insights into the life and times of her era.

Frances Anne Kemble

To Miss ---

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To ---

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Impromptu.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

A Farewell.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet.

Lady, whom my beloved loves so well!
    When on his clasping arm thy head reclineth,
When on thy lips his ardent kisses dwell,
    And the bright flood of burning light, that shineth
In his dark eyes, is poured into thine;
    When thou shalt lie enfolded to his heart,
In all the trusting helplessness of love;
    If in such joy sorrow can find a part,
    Oh, give one sigh unto a doom like mine!
Which I would have thee pity, but not prove.
One cold, calm, careless, wintry look, that fell
    Haply by chance on me, is all that he
E'er gave my love; round that, my wild thoughts dwell
    In one eternal pang of memory.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

I would I knew the lady of thy heart!
She whom thou lov'st perchance, as I love thee, -
She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee;
Those thoughts, in which, alas! I bear no part.
Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair,
How passing beautiful, thy love must be;
Of mind how high, of modesty how rare;
And then I've wept, I've wept in agony!
Oh, that I might but once behold those eyes,
That to thy enamour'd gaze alone seem fair;
Once hear that voice, whose music still replies
To the fond vows thy passionate accents swear:
Oh, that I might but know the truth and die,
Nor live in this long dream of misery!

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

Say thou not sadly, "never," and "no more,"
    But from thy lips banish those falsest words;
While life remains that which was thine before
Again may be thine; in Time's storehouse lie
    Days, hours, and moments, that have unknown hoards
Of joy, as well as sorrow: passing by,
Smiles, come with tears; therefore with hopeful eye
Look thou on dear things, though they turn away,
For thou and they, perchance, some future day
Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return;
For its departure then make thou no mourn,
But with stout heart bid what thou lov'st farewell;
That which the past hath given the future gives as well.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

Whene'er I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime;
Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twined,
And many a noonday woodland wandering.
There's not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky;
'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song,
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

Oft let me wander hand in hand with Thought,
In woodland paths, and lone sequester'd shades,
What time the sunny banks and mossy glades,
With dewy wreaths of early violets wrought,
Into the air their fragrant incense fling,
To greet the triumph of the youthful Spring.
Lo, where she comes! 'scaped from the icy lair
Of hoary Winter; wanton, free, and fair!
Now smile the heavens again upon the earth,
Bright hill, and bosky dell, resound with mirth,
And voices, full of laughter and wild glee,
Shout through the air pregnant with harmony;
And wake poor sobbing Echo, who replies
With sleepy voice, that softly, slowly dies.

Frances Anne Kemble

To Mrs. ----

Oh lady! thou, who in the olden time
Hadst been the star of many a poet's dream!
Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,
Weddest the gentle graces that beseem
Fair woman's best! forgive the darling line
That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye
Glance o'er the vain attempt too scornfully;
But, as thou read'st, think what a love was mine,
That made me venture on a theme, that none
Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.
Thou art most fair, though sorrow's chastening wing
Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow,
And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing
The splendour of thy beauty's summer now.
Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness
That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;
Thy beauty, is thy pure heart's holiness;
Thy grace, thy lofty spir...

Frances Anne Kemble