While man and woman still are incomplete, I prize that soul where man and woman meet, Which types all Nature's male and female plan, But, friend, man-woman is not woman-man.
When a night in November Blew forth its bleared airs An infant descended His birth-chamber stairs For the very first time, At the still, midnight chime; All unapprehended...
As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, Above the door, at country fair, Betokens entertainment there; So bays on poets' brows have been Set, for a sign of wit within....
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. ...
There is but one stage more in life's long way, O widowed women! Sadly upon your path Hath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends, Descended, since the morn of hope shone fair;...
Authors the world and their dull brains have traced To fix the ground where Paradise was placed; Mind not their learned whims and idle talk; Here, here's the place where these bright angels walk.
'Tis well - 'tis well - that clustering shade Is on thy forehead sweetly laid; And that light curl that slumbers by Makes deeper yet thy depth of eye; And that white rose that decks thy hair...
The sage, who said he should be proud Of windows in his breast,[1] Because he ne'er a thought allow'd That might not be confest; His window scrawl'd by every rake, His breast again would cover,...
They said that Fame her clarion dropped Because great deeds were done no more - That even Duty knew no shining ends, And Glory - 'twas a fallen star! But battle can heroes and bards restore....
At court I met it, in clothes brave enough To be a courtier, and looks grave enough To seem a statesman: as I near it came, It made me a great face. I asked the name....
Thou flattering work of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Though sweetly female every part, Yet such a head, and more the heart,...
How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring (Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering? I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb? While every soft, and every tender Strain...
Over his millions Death has lawful power, But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none. After a longer struggle, in a fight Worthy of Italy, to youth restor'd, Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge...