While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face Because it gives delight? She's not so sweet as a rose, A lily's straighter than she, And if she were as red or white...
While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face Because it gives delight? She's not so sweet as a rose, A lily's straighter than she, And if she were as red or white...
"Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down: to think of what is gone...
Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits: disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I...
Bianca! - fair Bianca! - who could dwell With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell, Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days?...
1. Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind, The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair? When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hind Repose trust in his footsteps of air?...
Strophe 1. Spring, born in heaven ere many a springtime flown, Dead spring that sawest on earth A babe of deathless birth, A flower of rosier flowerage than thine own,...
The day, all fierce with carmine, turns An Indian face towards Earth and dies; The west, like some gaunt vase, inurns Its ashes under smouldering skies, Athwart whose bowl one red cloud streams,...
La tribu proph'tique aux prunelles ardentes Hier s'est mise en route, emportant ses petits Sur son dos, ou livrant ' leurs fiers app'tits Le tr'sor toujours pr't des mamelles pendantes. ...
I've often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a-year, A handsome house to lodge a friend, A river at my garden's end, A terrace-walk, and half a rood Of land, set out to plant a wood....
Again? new tumults in my breast? Ah, spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest! I am not now, alas! the man As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne. Ah, sound no more thy soft alarms,...
Misery is my lot, Poverty and pain; Ill was I begot, Ill must I remain; Yet the wretched days One sweet comfort bring, When God whispering says, "Sing, O singer, sing!" ...
He sits in bivouacke, By fire, peneat' de drees; A pottle of champagner Held shently on his knees; His lange Uhlan lanze Stuck py him in de sand; Vhile a goot peas-poodin' sausage...