Because you never yet have loved me, dear, Think you you never can nor ever will? Surely while life remains hope lingers still, Hope the last blossom of life's dying year....
From the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her passionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail, Fading even while she glows; Though he knows...
Oh thou, that prattling on thy pebbled way Through my paternal vale dost stray, Working thy shallow passage to the sea! Oh, stream, thou speedest on The same as many seasons gone; But not, alas, to me...
Ye Cupids droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Which dearer than her eyes she lov'd: For he was gentle and so true,...
Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
Without thee, what were life or being! Without thee, what had I not grown! From fear and anguish vainly fleeing, I in the world had stood alone; For all I loved could trust no shelter;...
Trees and the menace of night; Then a long, lonely, leaden mere Backed by a desolate fell, As by a spectral battlement; and then, Low-brooding, interpenetrating all,...
Oh, Villa Maria, thrice favored spot, Unclouded sunshine is still thy lot Since first, 'neath thy mortal old, The spouses of Christ - working out God's will, Meekly entered, their mission high to fill...
I came upon a fountain on my way When it was hot, and sat me down to drink Its sparkling stream, when all around the brink I spied full many vessels made of clay, Whereon were written, not without display,...
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; ...
Now, now the mirth comes With the cake full of plums, Where bean's the king of the sport here; Beside we must know, The pea also Must revel, as queen, in the court here.
Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why-- made up the tale that love exists on earth.
A red rose in my lady's hair, A white rose in her fingers, A wild bird singing low, somewhere, A song that pulses, lingers. The sound of dancing and of mirth, The fiddle's merry chiming,...