'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep...
A Lorelei full fair she sits Throned on the stream that dimly rolls; Still, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knits To her from year to year men's souls.
But one short night between my Love and me! I watch the soft-shod dusk creep wistfully Through the slow-moving curtains, pausing by And shrouding with its spirit-fingers free...
Where art thou, beloved To-morrow? When young and old, and strong and weak, Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow, Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, - In thy place - ah! well-a-day!...
Well, then, another drink! Ben Jonson knows, So do you, Michael Drayton, that to-morrow I reach my fifty-second year. But hark ye, To-morrow lacks two days of being a month -...
How empty, dull, and useless is almost every day when it is spent! How few the traces it leaves behind it! How meaningless, how foolish those hours as they coursed by one after another! ...
I would that you should know, Dear mother, that I love you -- love you so! That I remember other days and years; Remember childish joys and childish fears. And this, because my baby's little hand...
O mother Venus, quit, I pray, Your violent assailing! The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth At last are unavailing; My blood runs cold, I'm getting old, And all my powers are failing. ...
Since ye distemper and defile Sweet Here by the measured mile, Nor aught on jocund highways heed Except the evidence of speed; And bear about your dreadful task Faces beshrouded 'neath a mask;...
What do we see? Is Cato then become A greater name in Britain than in Rome? Does mankind now admire his virtues more, Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil, wrote before?...
Just when the gentle hand of spring Came fringing the trees with bud and leaf, And when the blades the warm suns bring Were given glad promise of golden sheaf; Just when the birds began to sing...
Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, The Muse was called in a poetic hour, And insolently thrice the slighted maid Dared to suspend her unregarded aid;...
Cyriack, this three years day these eys, though clear To outward view, of blemish or of spot; Bereft of light thir seeing have forgot, Nor to thir idle orbs doth sight appear...
Dear Mr. Dan Leno, - This has been a great week For Art - One of the biggest weeks in fact On record. For at the beginning of the week, my dear Mr. Leno,...
How long, great Poet, shall thy sacred lays Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise? Can neither injuries of time, or age, Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage? No so thy Ovid in his exile wrote,...