Sonnet.

Though thou return unto the former things,
Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have strayed
In other days, and not a bough, branch, blade
Of tree, or meadow, but the same appears
As when thou lovedst them in former years,
They shall not seem the same; the spirit brings
Change from the inward, though the outward be
E'en as it was, when thou didst weep to see
It last, and spak'st that prophecy of pain,
"Farewell!    I shall not look on ye again!"
And so thou never didst - no, though e'en now
    Thine eyes behold all they so loved of yore,
    The Thou that did behold them then, no more
Lives in this world, it is another Thou.

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 The Dead.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Fragment.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To ----

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To Mrs. ----

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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

To ----

When the glad sun looks smiling from the sky,
    Upon each shadowy glen and woody height,
And that you tread those well known paths where I
    Have stray'd with you, - do not forget me quite.

When the warm hearth throws its bright glow around,
    On many a smiling cheek, and glance of light,
And the gay laugh wakes with its joyous sound
    The soul of mirth, - do not forget me quite.

You will not miss me; for with you remain
    Hearts fond and warm, and spirits young and bright,
'Tis but one word - "farewell;" and all again
    Will seem the same, - yet don't forget me quite.

Frances Anne Kemble

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

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.

'Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,
    All the fond visions Hope's bright finger traces,
    All the fond visions Time's dark wing effaces,
But very dreams! but morning buds, that fall
    Withered and blighted, long before the night:
    Strewing the paths they should have made more bright,
With mournful wreaths, whose light hath past away,
    That can return to life and beauty never,
And yet, of whom it was but yesterday,
    We deemed they'd bloom as fresh and fair for ever.
Oh then, when hopes, that to thy heart are dearest,
    Over the future shed their sunniest beam,
When round thy path their bright wings hover nearest,
    Trust not too fondly! - for 'tis but a dream!

Frances Anne Kemble