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Hymn
To the too-dear, to the too-beautiful,who fills my heart with clarity,to the angel, to the immortal idol,All hail, in immortality!She flows through my reality,air, mixed with the salt sea-swell:into my souls ecstasy,pours the essence of the eternal;Ever-fresh sachet, that scentsthe dear corners atmospheric light,hidden smoke, of the burning censer,in the secret paths of night.How, incorruptible love,to express your endless verities?Grain of musk, unseen, above,in the depths of my infinities!To the too-dear, to the too-beautiful,who is my joy and sanity,to the angel, to the immortal idol,All hail in immortality!
Charles Baudelaire
Sonnet. To Lydia, On Her Birth-Day.
Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth,The day be sacred 'mid each varying year;How oft the name recals thy spotless worth,And joys departed, still to memory dear!If matchless friendship, constancy, and love,Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile,'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove,And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile.May every after-season to thee bringNew joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way,Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing,And angels waft thee to eternal day!Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill,Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!
Thomas Gent
A Summer Wish
Live all thy sweet life thro', Sweet Rose, dew-sprent,Drop down thine evening dewTo gather it anewWhen day is bright: I fancy thou wast meantChiefly to give delight.Sing in the silent sky, Glad soaring bird;Sing out thy notes on highTo sunbeam straying byOr passing cloud; Heedless if thou art heardSing thy full song aloud.Oh that it were with me As with the flower;Blooming on its own treeFor butterfly and beeIts summer morns: That I might bloom mine hourA rose in spite of thorns.Oh that my work were done As birds' that soarRejoicing in the sun:That when my time is runAnd daylight too, I so might rest once moreCool with refreshing dew.
Christina Georgina Rossetti
Life
This world that we're a-livin' in Is mighty hard to beat,For you get a thorn with every rose - But ain't the roses sweet!
Unknown
The Lover
Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far,It seems that there are worlds between us;Shine here again, thou wandering star!Earth's planet! and return with Venus.At times thou broughtest me thy lightWhen restless sleep had gone away;At other times more blessed nightStole over, and prolonged thy stay.
Walter Savage Landor
The Orphan's Good-Bye.
When my heart was sad and lonely, And had closed its inmost cellOver the impulsive feelings That rule my nation's hearts too well.When the tie was cut asunder, That had bound me to a home,And I felt the desolation Of being in the world alone;When I first, the veil assuming, Masked before a treacherous world,And the hopes romance expanded Reality had sternly furled;And the touch of disappointment, Blighted what was green and fair,And the spirit's bright revealings Are not so hopeful as they were.Precious are the words of kindness, Falling on the heart like dew,Freshening though, alas for weakness, They cannot make things new.Thoughts come warm from that deep foun...
Nora Pembroke
Horace And Lydia Reconciled
HORACEWhen you were mine in auld lang syne,And when none else your charms might ogle,I'll not deny,Fair nymph, that IWas happier than a Persian mogul.LYDIABefore she came--that rival flame!--(Was ever female creature sillier?)In those good times,Bepraised in rhymes,I was more famed than Mother Ilia!HORACEChloe of Thrace! With what a graceDoes she at song or harp employ her!I'd gladly dieIf only IMight live forever to enjoy her!LYDIAMy Sybaris so noble isThat, by the gods! I love him madly--That I might saveHim from the graveI'd give my life, and give it gladly!HORACEWhat if ma belle from favor fell,And I made up my mind to sh...
Eugene Field
Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.
Aw like to see a lot o' ladsAll frolicsome an free,An hear ther noisy voices,As they run an shaat wi' glee;But if ther's onny sooart o' ladAw like better nor another,'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad,It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother.He may be rayther dull at schooil,Or rayther slow at play;He may be rough an quarrelsome, -Mischievous in his way;He may be allus in a scrape,An cause noa end o' bother;But ther's summat gooid an honestIn the lad 'at loves his Mother.He may oft do what isn't reight,But conscience will keep prickin;He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief,Nor what he'd fear a lickin.Her trubbled face, - her tearful een,Her sighs shoo tries to smother,Are coals ov foir on the heead
John Hartley
To A Star.
Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the darksome sceneThrough fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest,Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy veil,Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake,Lighting the hour of sacred love; more sweetThan the expiring morn-star's paly fires: -Sweet star! When wearied Nature sinks to sleep,And all is hushed, - all, save the voice of Love,Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blastOf soft Favonius, which at intervalsSighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught butLulling the slaves of interest to reposeWith that mild, pitying gaze? Oh, I would lookIn thy dear beam till every bond of senseBecame enamoured -
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Reminiscence of Mahomed Akram
I shall never forget you, never. Never escapeYour memory woven about the beautiful things of life.The sudden Thought of your Face is like a Wound When it comes unsoughtOn some scent of Jasmin, Lilies, or pale Tuberose.Any one of the sweet white fragrant flowers,Flowers I used to love and lay in your hair.Sunset is terribly sad. I saw you standTall against the red and the gold like a slender palm;The light wind stirred your hair as you waved your hand,Waved farewell, as ever, serene and calm,To me, the passion-wearied and tost and torn,Riding down the road in the gathering grey. Since that dayThe sunset red is empty, the gold forlorn.Often across the Banqueting board at nightsMen linger about your name in careless prai...
Adela Florence Cory Nicolson
Infantile Influence.
("Lorsque l'enfant parait.")[XIX., May 11, 1830.]The child comes toddling in, and young and oldWith smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold,And artless, babyish joy;A playful welcome greets it through the room,The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom,To greet the happy boy.If June with flowers has spangled all the ground,Or winter bleak the flickering hearth aroundDraws close the circling seat;The child still sheds a never-failing light;We call; Mamma with mingled joy and frightWatches its tottering feet.Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw,We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law,Or politics, or prayer;The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play,Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay,<...
Victor-Marie Hugo
Our Souls
Our souls should be vessels receivingThe waters of love for relieving The sorrows of men.For here lies the pleasure of living:In taking God's bounties, and giving The gifts back again.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Sore In Need Was I Of A Faithful Friend
Sore in need was I of a faithful friend, And it seemed to me that lifeHad come to its much desired end - Just then God gave me a wife.I had seen the beauty of fairy things, And seen the women walk;I had heard the voice of the seven sins And all the wonderful talk.Ah, the promising earth that seems so kind, And the comrades with outstretched hand -But did you ever stand alone In a black, forsaken land?Then the wonderful things that God can do One comes to understand:How He turns the desert dust to a dream, And the lonely wind to a friend,And makes a bright beginning Of what had seemed the end:'Twas in such an hour God placed in mine The moonbeam hand of a friend.
Richard Le Gallienne
Love Lies Bleeding
You call it, "Love lies bleeding," so you may,Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,As we have seen it here from day to day,From month to month, life passing not away:A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvelous power)Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bentEarthward in uncomplaining languishmentThe dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led,Though by a slender thread,)So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dewOf his death-wound, when he from innocent airThe gentlest breath of resignation drew;While Venus in a passion of despairRent, weeping over him, her golden hairSpangled with drops of that celestial shower.She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;
William Wordsworth
The Young Novice.
The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around,But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound;Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer,Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure - as seraph heav'nly fair.The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheekAre humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek,While in the classic lip and brow, each feature of that face,And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of noble race.But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil,The silver cross - oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale:They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod,She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to G...
Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Horace To Maecenas.
How breaks my heart to hear you sayYou feel the shadows fall about you!The gods forefendThat fate, O friend!I would not, I could not live without you!You gone, what would become of me,Your shadow, O beloved Maecenas?We've shared the mirth--And sweets of earth--Let's share the pangs of death between us!I should not dread Chinaera's breathNor any threat of ghost infernal;Nor fear nor painShould part us twain--For so have willed the powers eternal.No false allegiance have I sworn,And, whatsoever fate betide you,Mine be the partTo cheer your heart--With loving song to fare beside you!Love snatched you from the claws of deathAnd gave you to the grateful city;The falling treeThat threatened me
Surface Rights
Drifting, drifting down the River,Tawny current and foam-flecked tide,Sorrowful songs of lonely boatmen,Mournful forests on either side.Thine are the outcrops' glittering blocks,The quartz where the rich pyrites gleam,The golden treasure of unhewn rocksAnd the loose gold in the stream.But, - the dim vast forests along the shore,That whisper wonderful things o' nights, -These are things that I value more,My beautiful "surface rights."Drifting, drifting down the River, -Stars a-tremble about the sky -Ah, my lover, my heart is breaking,Breaking, breaking, I know not why.Why is Love such a sorrowful thing?This I never could understand;Pain and passion are linked together,Ever I find them hand in hand....
Written In A Young Lady's Album.
Sweet friend, the world, like some fair infant blessed,Radiant with sportive grace, around thee plays;Yet 'tis not as depicted in thy breastNot as within thy soul's fair glass, its raysAre mirrored. The respectful fealtyThat my heart's nobleness hath won for thee,The miracles thou workest everywhere,The charms thy being to this life first lent,To it, mere charms to reckon thou'rt content,To us, they seem humanity so fair.The witchery sweet of ne'er-polluted youth,The talisman of innocence and truthHim I would see, who these to scorn can dare!Thou revellest joyously in telling o'erThe blooming flowers that round thy path are strown,The glad, whom thou hast made so evermore,The souls that thou hast conquered for thine own.In thy deceit so b...
Friedrich Schiller