We were two daughters of one race; She was the fairest in the face. The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell; Therefore revenge became me well....
They have left the doors ajar; and by their clash, And prelude on the keys, I know the song, Their favourite'which I call 'The Tables Turned.' Evelyn begins it 'O diviner Air.'
You remember--don't you, brother-- In our early years, The counsels of our poor, dear mother, And her hopes and fears? She told us to love one another-- Brother, dry your tears! ...
We were two daughters of one race; She was the fairest in the face. The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell; Therefore revenge became me well....
'Not to admire, is all the art I know, To make men happy, and to keep them so.' (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech, So take it in the very words of Creech.)[136]...
Chattering finch and water-fly Are not merrier than I; Here among the flowers I lie Laughing everlastingly. No: I may not tell the best; Surely, friends, I might have guessed...
"Speak! speak I thou fearful guest Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, Bat with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms,...
Just this one day in all the year Let all be one, let all be dear; Wife, husband, child in fond embrace, And thrust the phantom from its place. No bitter words, no frowning brow,...
The skies are strown with stars, The streets are fresh with dew A thin moon drifts to westward, The night is hushed and cheerful. My thought is quick with you.
Sure never yet was antelope Could skip so lightly by. Stand off, or else my skipping-rope Will hit you in the eye. How lightly Whirls the skipping-rope ! How fairy-like you fly !...
Where'er he be, on water or on land, Under pale suns or climes that flames enfold; One of Christ's own, or of Cythera's band, Shadowy beggar or Cr'sus rich with gold; ...
The sky is an immortal tent built by the Sons of Los: And every space that a man views around his dwelling-place Standing on his own roof or in his garden on a mount...
Above the russet clods the corn is seen Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake, Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break....
Against the light of a dawning white My Skyline Riders stand, There is trouble ahead for a dark year dead And the selfish wrongs of a land; There are hurrying feet of fools to repeat...