Sometimes I long to write an ode And magnify his name, The man of honor, on the road To opulence and fame, On whom was never aid bestowed By any helpful dame. ...
A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes, Full of eternal constancy and faith, And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs Truth's holy voice, with ev'ry balmy breath;...
No more upon my bosom rest thee, Too often have my hands caressed thee, My lips thou knowest well, too well; Lean to my heart no more thine ear My spirit's living truth to hear It has no more to tell....
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain, Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies; Without that modest softening that enhances The downcast eye, repentant of the pain...
What need we marry women, when Without their use we may have men, And such as will in short time be For murder fit, or mutiny? As Cadmus once a new way found, By throwing teeth into the ground;...
By long observation I have understood, That two little vermin are kin to Will Wood. The first is an insect they call a wood-louse, That folds up itself in itself for a house,...
Oh, the brow that has never been shaded by care The rosewreath of pleasure may smilingly wear, And the heart that is wholly a stranger to gloom, 'Mid the din of existence may fearlessly bloom;...
About the time when bluebells swing Their elfin belfries for the bee And in the fragrant House of Spring Wild Music moves; and Fantasy Sits weaving webs of witchery: And Beauty's self in silence leans...
Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand,...
Sylvan, they say, and nymph are gone; And yet I saw the two last night, When overhead the moon sailed white, And through the mists, her light made wan, Each bush and tree doffed its disguise,...
There is a flute that follows me From tree to tree: A water flute a spirit sets To silver lips in waterfalls, And through the breath of violets A sparkling music calls:...
When the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones, Who speeds to the woodland walks? To birds and trees who talks? Caesar of his leafy Rome, There the poet is at home....