Not a line of her writing have I, Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby I may picture her there; And in vain do I urge my unsight To conceive my lost prize...
How can we find? how can we rest? how can We, being gods, win joy, or peace, being man? We, the gaunt zanies of a witless Fate, Who love the unloving and lover hate, Forget the moment ere the moment slips,...
Thou hast woven the spell that hath bound me, Through all the sad changes of years; And the smiles that I wore when I found thee, Have faded and melted in tears!...
Thy hill leave not, O Spring, Nor longer leap down to the new-green'd Plain. Thy western cliff-caves keep O Wind, nor branch-borne Echo after thee complain With grumbling wild and deep....
When the south-west wind came The air grew bright and sweet, as though a flame Had cleansed the world of winter. The low sky As the wind lifted it rose trembling vast and high, And white clouds sallied by...
I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing: "Fly through the world, and I will follow thee, Only for looks that may turn back on me; ...
Oh, boastful, wicked land, that once was beautiful and great, How bitter and how black must be your self-invited fate, While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate! ...
'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain Beat back the roaring storm, but how subdued His day-break note, a sad vicissitude! Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee restrain?...