The Art of Painting had in the Primitive years looked with the light, not towards it. Before Tintoretto's date, however, many painters practised shadows and lights, and turned more or less sunwards; but he set the figure bet...
Broideries and ancient stuffs that some queen Wore; nor gems that warriors' hilts encrusted; Nor fresh from heroes' brows the laurels green; Nor bright sheaves by bards of eld entrusted...
Venus, dear Cnidian-Paphian queen! Desert that Cyprus way off yonder, And fare you hence, where with incense My Glycera would have you fonder; And to your joy bring hence your boy,...
Lately was I to gentle maidens suited, And not without some glory did contend, But now my weapons and my lute made useless For contests, on this wall I will suspend,...
I thought that silence would be best, But I a call have heard, And, Victor, after all the rest, I well might say a word: The day and work is nearly done, And ours the victory,...
In the fair days when God By man as godlike trod, And each alike was Greek, alike was free, God's lightning spared, they said, Alone the happier head Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee,...
Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears, French of the French, and Lord of human tears; Child-lover; Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance...
Return to greet me, colours that were my joy, Not in the woeful crimson of men slain, But shining as a garden; come with the streaming Banners of dawn and sundown after rain. ...
Your past is past and never to return, The long bright yesterday of life's first years, Its days are dead -- cold ashes in an urn. Some held for you a chalice for your tears,...
Hear, ye virgins, and I'll teach What the times of old did preach. Rosamond was in a bower Kept, as Danae in a tower: But yet Love, who subtle is, Crept to that, and came to this....
Blest spirit, who with loving tenderness Quickenest my heart so old and near to die, Who mid thy joys on me dost bend an eye Though many nobler men around thee press!...
Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd: For he was gentle, and so true,...
Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of Love, By Death's unequal[1] hand alike controul'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!