They say that every idle word Is numbered by the Omniscient Lord. O Parliament! 'tis well that He Endureth for Eternity, And that a thousand Angels wait To write them at thy inner gate.
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson, Come and share my haunch of venison. I have too a bin of claret, Good, but better when you share it. Tho' 'tis only a small bin, There's a stock of it within....
No, my own love of other years! No, it must never be. Much rests with you that yet endears, Alas! but what with me? Could those bright years o'er me revolve So gay, o'er you so fair,...
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: I warm'd both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
The leaves are falling; so am I; The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; So have I too. Scarcely on any bough is heard Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird The whole wood through. ...
Lately our poets loiter'd in green lanes, Content to catch the ballads of the plains; I fancied I had strength enough to climb A loftier station at no distant time, And might securely from intrusion doze...
Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower, Some in the chill, some in the warmer hour: Alike they flourish and alike they fall, And Earth who nourisht them receives them all....
The dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore Falls heavy on our ears no more; And by long strides are left behind The dear delights of woman-kind, Who win their battles like their loves,...
In his own image the Creator made, His own pure sunbeam quicken'd thee, O man! Thou breathing dial! since thy day began The present hour was ever mark'd with shade!
The mother of the Muses, we are taught, Is Memory: she has left me; they remain, And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing About the summer days, my loves of old. Alas! alas! is all I can reply....
Struggling, and faint, and fainter didst thou wane, O Moon! and round thee all thy starry train Came forth to help thee, with half-open eyes, And trembled every one with still surprise,...
Tell me not what too well I know About the bard of Sirmio. Yes, in Thalia's son Such stains there are, as when a Grace Sprinkles another's laughing face With nectar, and runs on.
Once, and once only, have I seen thy face, Elia! once only has thy tripping tongue Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left Impression on it stronger or more sweet....
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art; I warm'd both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.