Sonnet.

There's not a fibre in my trembling frame
That does not vibrate when thy step draws near,
There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear
Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.
When thou art with me, every sense seems dull,
And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee;
My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame,
And my bewildered spirit seems to swim
In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily.
When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart
A cold and bitter consciousness of pain:
The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart,
And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again
Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone;
And suddenly I wake - and am alone.

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

Sonnet.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To Mrs. ----

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

A Wish.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To ----

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.

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

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.

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn
    O'er joys that God hath for a season lent,
    Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.
There lies no desert in the land of life,
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.
Haply no more, music, and mirth and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art,
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
But when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile
    The panting breath and hurrying steps of life,
    The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife
Of hourly being; the sharp biting file
Of action, fretting on the tightened chain
Of rough existence; all that is not pain,
But utter weariness; oh! to be free
But for a while from conscious entity!
To shut the banging doors and windows wide,
Of restless sense, and let the soul abide
Darkly and stilly, for a little space,
Gathering its strength up to pursue the race;
Oh, Heavens! to rest a moment, but to rest
From this quick, gasping life, were to be blest!

Frances Anne Kemble