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Memories
They come, as the breeze comes over the foam,Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep --The fairest of memories from far-away home,The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep.They come as the stars come out in the sky,That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep,And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sighAnd I welcome them all while I wearily weep.They come as a song comes out of the pastA loved mother murmured in days that are dead,Whose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last,When the gloom of the heart wraps its gray o'er the head.They come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded graves,And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way;And they murmur around us as murmur the wavesThat sigh on the shore at the dying ...
Abram Joseph Ryan
Lines to a Portrait, by a Superior Person
When I bought you for a song,Years ago Lord knows how long!I was struck I may be wrongBy your features,And a something in your airThat I couldnt quite compareTo my other plain or fairFellow creatures.In your simple, oval frameYou were not well known to fame,But to me twas all the sameWhoeer drew you;For your face I cant forget,Though I oftentimes regretThat, somehow, I never yetSaw quite through you.Yet each morning, when I rise,I go first to greet your eyes;And, in turn, you scrutinizeMy presentment.And when shades of evening fall,As you hang upon my wall,Youre the last thing I recallWith contentment.It is weakness, yet I knowThat I never turned to goAnywhere, f...
Bret Harte
Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post.
Sweet, drooping, azure tinted bells,How dear you are;Bringing the scent of shady dells,To me from far;Telling of spring and gladsome sunny hours, -Nature's bright jewels!=-heart-refreshing flowers!Oh, for a stroll when opening daySilvers the dew,Kissing the buds, whilst zephyrs playAs though they knewTheir gentle breath was needed, just to shakeYour slumbering beauties, and to bid you wake.Far from the moilding town and trade,How sweet to spendAn hour amid the misty glade,And find a friendIn every tiny blossom, and to lie,And dream of Him whose love can never die.Ye are Gael's messengers, sent hereTo make us glad;Mute, and yet eloquent, to cheerThe heart that's sad;To turn our thoughts from ...
John Hartley
Brunette
When trees in SpringAre blossomingMy lady wakesFrom dreams whose lightMade dark days bright,For their sweet sakes.Yet in her eyesA shadow liesOf bygone mirth;And still she seemsTo walk in dreams,And not on earth.Some men may holdThat hair of goldIs lovelierThan darker sheen:They have not seenMy ladys hair.Her eyes are bright,Her bosom whiteAs the sea foamOn sharp rocks sprayed;Her mouth is madeOf honeycomb.And whoso seeksIn her dusk cheeksMay see Loves sign,A blush that glowsLike a red roseBeneath brown wine.
Victor James Daley
Flower-De-Luce
Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, Or solitary mere,Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers Its waters to the weir!Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry Of spindle and of loom,And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry And rushing of the flame.Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance, Thou dost not toil nor spin,But makest glad and radiant with thy presence The meadow and the lin.The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, And round thee throng and runThe rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, The outlaws of the sun.The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, And tilts against the field,And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent With stee...
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sonnet.--The Lotus.
Love came to Flora asking for a flowerThat would of flowers be undisputed queen,The lily and the rose, long, long had beenRivals for that high honour. Bards of powerHad sung their claims. "The rose can never towerLike the pale lily with her Juno mien"--"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus betweenFlower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower."Give me a flower delicious as the roseAnd stately as the lily in her pride"--"But of what colour?"--"Rose-red," Love first chose,Then prayed,--"No, lily-white,--or, both provide;"And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed,And "lily-white,"--the queenliest flower that blows.
Toru Dutt
Two Sonnets On Fame
I.Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coyTo those who woo her with too slavish knees,But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;She is a Gypsy, will not speak to thoseWho have not learnt to be content without her;A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;A very Gypsy is she, Nilus-born,Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.II."You cannot eat your cake and have it too."- Proverb.How fever'd is the man, who cannot lookUpon his mortal day...
John Keats
The Sexes.
See in the babe two loveliest flowers united yet in truth,While in the bud they seem the same the virgin and the youth!But loosened is the gentle bond, no longer side by sideFrom holy shame the fiery strength will soon itself divide.Permit the youth to sport, and still the wild desire to chase,For, but when sated, weary strength returns to seek the grace.Yet in the bud, the double flowers the future strife begin,How precious all yet naught can still the longing heart within.In ripening charms the virgin bloom to woman shape hath grown,But round the ripening charms the pride hath clasped its guardian zone;Shy, as before the hunter's horn the doe all trembling moves,She flies from man as from a foe, and hates before she loves!From lowering brows this struggling wo...
Friedrich Schiller
Sonnet LXXXV.
Avventuroso più d' altro terreno.HE APOSTROPHIZES THE SPOT WHERE LAURA FIRST SALUTED HIM. Ah, happiest spot of earth! in this sweet placeLove first beheld my condescending fairRetard her steps, to smile with courteous graceOn me, and smiling glad the ambient air.The deep-cut image, wrought with skilful care,Time shall from hardest adamant efface,Ere from my mind that smile it shall erase,Dear to my soul! which memory planted there.Oft as I view thee, heart-enchanting soil!With amorous awe I'll seek--delightful toil!Where yet some traces of her footsteps lie.And if fond Love still warms her generous breast,Whene'er you see her, gentle friend! requestThe tender tribute of a tear--a sigh.ANON. 1777.
Francesco Petrarca
Thy Will Be Done.
Sometimes the silver cord of life Is loosed at one brief stroke;As when the elements at strife,With Nature's wild contentions rife, Uproot the sturdy oak.Or fell disease, in patience borne, Attenuates the frameTill the meek sufferer, wan and worn,Of energy and beauty shorn, Death's sweet release would claim.By instant touch or long decay Is dissolution wrought;When, lost to earth, the grave and gay,The young and old who pass away, Abide in hallowed thought.In dear regard together drawn, Affection's debt to pay,Fond greetings we exchange at dawnWith one who, ere the day be gone, Is bruised and lifeless clay.O thou in manhood's morning-time With health and hope elate...
Hattie Howard
A Love Song
My love it should be silent, being deep--And being very peaceful should be still--Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep--Serenely silent as some mighty hill.Yet is my love so great it needs must fillWith very joy the inmost heart of me,The joy of dancing branches on the hill,The joy of leaping waves upon the sea.
Theodosia Garrison
A Portrait
IShe gave up beauty in her tender youth, Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; She covered up her eyes lest they should gazeOn vanity, and chose the bitter truth.Harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth, Servant of servants, little known to praise, Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days:She schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouthThat with the poor and stricken she might make A home, until the least of all sufficedHer wants; her own self learned she to forsake,Counting all earthly gain but hurt and loss.So with calm will she chose and bore the cross And hated all for love of Jesus Christ.IIThey knelt in silent anguish by her bed, And could not weep; but calmly th...
Christina Georgina Rossetti
Mutability
They say there's a high windless world and strange,Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,'Aeterna corpora', subject to no change.There the sure suns of these pale shadows move;There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,And perishing hearts, imperishable Love. . . .Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;Love has no habitation but the heart.Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,Cling, and are borne into the night apart.The laugh dies with the lips, 'Love' with the lover.
Rupert Brooke
Unrequited
Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sereGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer.Sweetheart I called her. - When did she repeatSweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird;And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.
Madison Julius Cawein
Nocturne ["I Sit To-Night By The Firelight,"]
I sit to-night by the firelight,And I look at the glowing flame,And I see in the bright red flashesA Heart, a Face, and a Name.How often have I seen picturesFramed in the firelight's blaze,Of hearts, of names, and of faces,And scenes of remembered days!How often have I found poemsIn the crimson of the coals,And the swaying flames of the firelightUnrolled such golden scrolls.And my eyes, they were proud to read them,In letters of living flame,But to-night, in the fire, I see onlyOne Heart, one Face, and one Name.But where are the olden pictures?And where are the olden dreams?Has a change come over my vision?Or over the fire's bright gleams?Not over my vision, surely;My eyes -- they are ...
Unfortunate
Heart, you are restless as a paper scrapThat's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind;Saying, "She is most wise, patient and kind.Between the small hands folded in her lapSurely a shamed head may bow down at length,And find forgiveness where the shadows stirAbout her lips, and wisdom in her strength,Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her!" . . .She will not care. She'll smile to see me come,So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,And open wide upon that holy airThe gates of peace, and take my tiredness home,Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXVII.
Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM. My thoughts in fair alliance and arrayHold converse on the theme which most endears:Pity approaches and repents delay:E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears.Since the last day, the terrible hour when FateThis present life of her fair being reft,From heaven she sees, and hears, and feels our state:No other hope than this to me is left.O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind!O unexampled beauty, stately, rare!Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin'd.Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there,Who to the world so eminent and clearMade her great virtue and my passion here.MACGREGOR. My thought...
Sweet Innisfallen.
Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine!How fair thou art let others tell,-- To feel how fair shall long be mine.Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory's dream that sunny smile,Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of care--Through crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there;No more unto thy shores to come, But, on the world's rude ocean tost,Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost.Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now,When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, L...
Thomas Moore