Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her! Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, O, what a feast her bonnie mou'!...
She stood in the open door, She blessed them faint and low: "I must go," she said, "must go Away from the light of the sun, Away from you, every one; Must see your eyes no more,--...
The beauty of her hair bewilders me - Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide Swirling about the ears on either side And storming round the neck tumultuously: Or like the lights of old antiquity...
Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen, To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between: Future or Past no richer secret folds, O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds.
Upon a poet's page I wrote Of old two letters of her name; Part seemed she of the effulgent thought Whence that high singer's rapture came. - When now I turn the leaf the same...
Then when Grania was certain of Diarmuid's death she gave out a long very pitiful cry that was heard through the whole place, and her women and her people came to her, and asked what ailed her to give a cry like that. And she t...
June 4th! Do you know what that date means? June 4th! By this air and these pines! Well, only you know how I hate scenes, These might be my very last lines! For perhaps, sir, you'll kindly remember...
Sitting alone by the window, Watching the moonlit street, Bending my head to listen To the well-known sound of your feet, I have been wondering, darling, How I can bear the pain,...
Her last words, at parting, how can I forget? Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay; Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet, When its sounds from the ear have long melted away....
I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire, It cost a cool thousand in France; I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue:...
"I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me; My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow, And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . ....
Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea, She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded, One shoe above the other danglingly, And lo! a Something exquisitely graded,...
'Tis woman rules the whole world still, Though faults the critics say she has; She smiles her smile and works her will - 'Tis just a little way she has.