To ----

When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming,
    And the wild winds sang requiem to the year;
But thou, in all thy beauty's pride wert blooming,
    And my young heart knew hope without a fear.

When we last parted, summer suns were smiling,
    And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore;
But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling,
    For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no more.

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

The Prayer Of A Lonely Heart.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

The Red Indian.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To Miss ---

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.

To ----

I would I might be with thee, when the year
Begins to wane, and that thou walk'st alone
Upon the rocky strand, whilst loud and clear,
The autumn wind sings, from his cloudy throne,
Wild requiems for the summer that is gone.
Or when, in sad and contemplative mood,
Thy feet explore the leafy-paven wood:
I would my soul might reason then with thine,
Upon those themes most solemn and most strange,
Which every falling leaf and fading flower,
Whisper unto us with a voice divine;
Filling the brief space of one mortal hour,
With fearful thoughts of death, decay, and change,
And the high mystery of that after birth,
That comes to us, as well as to the earth.

Frances Anne Kemble

To Miss ---

Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year
    Already feels old Winter's icy breath;
As with cold hands, he scatters on her bier
    The faded glories of her Autumn wreath.
As fleetly as the Summer's sunshine past,
    The Winter's snow must melt; and the young Spring,
Strewing the earth with flowers, will come at last,
    And in her train the hour of parting bring.
But, though I leave the harbour, where my heart
    Sometime had found a peaceful resting-place,
Where it lay calmly moored; though I depart,
    Yet, let not time my memory quite efface.
'Tis true, I leave no void, the happy home
    To which you welcomed me, will be as gay,
As bright, as cheerful, when I've turned to roam,
    Once more, upon life's weary onward way.
But oh! if ever by the wa...

Frances Anne Kemble

The Parting.

'Twas a fit hour for parting,
    For athwart the leaden sky
The heavy clouds came gathering
    And sailing gloomily:
The earth was drunk with heaven's tears,
    And each moaning autumn breeze
Shook the burthen of its weeping
    Off the overladen trees.
The waterfall rushed swollen down,
    In the gloaming, still and gray;
With a foam-wreath on the angry brow
    Of each wave that flashed away.
My tears were mingling with the rain,
    That fell so cold and fast,
And my spirit felt thy low deep sigh
    Through the wild and roaring blast.
The beauty of the summer woods
    Lay rustling round our feet,
And all fair things had passed away -
    'Twas an hour for parting meet.

Frances Anne Kemble

To ----

What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers
    All the sad night, when he is far away?
What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours,
    Till back again he leads the smiling day?

As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye,
    And blesses from its lowly seat, the god,
In his great glory he goes through the sky,
    And recks not of the blessing from the sod.

And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate!
    That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee?
That thy departing, leaves me desolate,
    That thy returning, brings back life to me?

I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe,
    That for thy sake daily disturbs my life;
I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so,
    That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.

I...

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

A Promise.

In the dark, lonely night,
When sleep and silence keep their watch o'er men;
False love! in thy despite,
I will be with thee then.
When in the world of dreams thy spirit strays,
Seeking, in vain, the peace it finds not here,
Thou shalt be led back to thine early days
Of life and love, and I will meet thee there.
I'll come to thee, with the bright, sunny brow,
That was Hope's throne before I met with thee;
And then I'll show thee how 'tis furrowed now
By the untimely age of misery.
I'll speak to thee, in the fond, joyous tone,
That wooed thee still with love's impassioned spell;
And then I'll teach thee how I've learnt to moan,
Since last upon thine ear its accents fell.
I'll come to thee in all youth's brightest power,
As on the day thy faith to mine was ...

Frances Anne Kemble