Italian bold, why wilt thou never cease The fathers from their tombs to summon forth? Why bring them, with this dead age to converse, That stifled is by enemies and by sloth?...
Ah, child, thou art but half thy darling mother's; Hers couldst thou wholly be, My light in thee would outglow all in others; She would relive to me. But niggard Nature's trick of birth...
Breathe not, hid Heart: cease silently, And though thy birth-hour beckons thee, Sleep the long sleep: The Doomsters heap Travails and teens around us here,...
The great sun sinks behind the town Through a red mist of Volnay wine.... But what's the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the town? You'll only skip the page, you'll look...
Carved in the silence by the hand of Pain, And made more perfect by the gift of Peace, Than if Delight had bid your sorrow cease, And brought the dawn to where the dark has lain,...
Sweet bottle-shaped flower of lushy red, Born when the summer wakes her warmest breeze, Among the meadow's waving grasses spread, Or 'neath the shade of hedge or clumping trees,...
Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem Rather to patience prompted, than that prowl Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud, France, fam'd in all great arts, in none supreme....
Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep, - A tender infant with its curtain'd eye, Breathing as it would neither live nor die With that unchanging countenance of sleep!...
Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd No eyes could wake so beautiful as they: Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay, I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dream'd...
Oh, melancholy fragment of the night Drawing thy lazy web against the sun, Thou shouldst have waited till the day was done With kindred glooms to build thy fane aright, Sublime amid the ruins of the light!...
If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the church, endow'd With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;...
Dear Child of Nature, let them rail! There is a nest in a green dale, A harbour and a hold; Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see Thy own heart-stirring days, and be A light to young and old. ...
Young mother! proudly throbs thine heart, and well may it rejoice, Well may'st thou raise to Heaven above in grateful prayer thy voice: A gift hath been bestowed on thee, a gift of priceless worth,...
Whither dost thou whorry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this, Here and there a fresh love is. That doth like me, this doth please, Thus a thousand mistresses...
Whither dost thou hurry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this, Here and there a fresh Love is; That doth like me, this doth please; Thus a thousand mistresses...
Barry! your spirit long ago Has haunted me; at last I know The heart it sprung from: one more sound Ne'er rested on poetic ground. But, Barry Cornwall! by what right...
I, The poet William Yeats, With old mill boards and sea-green slates, And smithy work from the Gort forge, Restored this tower for my wife George; And may these characters remain...