Would some little joy to-day Visit us, heart! Could it but a moment stay, Then depart, With the flutter of its wings Stirring sense of brighter things. Like a butterfly astray In a dark room;...
For I must sing of all I feel and know, Waiting with Memnon passive near the palms, Until the heavenly light doth dawn and grow And thrill my silence into mystic psalms;...
From the midst of the fire I fling These arrows of fire to you: If they sing, and burn, and sting, You feel how I burn too; But if they reach you there Speed-spent, charred black and cold,...
Who has a thing to bring For a gift to our lord the king, Our king all kings above? A young girl brought him love; And he dowered her with shame, With a sort of infamous fame,...
Last evening's huge lax clouds of turbid white Grew dark and louring, burthened with the rain Which that long wind monotonous all night Swept clashing loud through Dreamland's still domain, ...
Once in a saintly passion I cried with desperate grief, "O Lord, my heart is black with guile, Of sinners I am chief." Then stooped my guardian angel And whispered from behind,...
What are these leaves dark-spotted and acerb? 'A very holy herb.' To what good use may I this herb convert? 'Press it on thy soul's hurt.' When herb unto the hurt I thus apply? 'Herb-ert is sanctity.'
From out the house I crept, The house which long had caged my homeless life: The mighty City in vast silence slept, Dreaming away its tumult, toil, and strife:...
The fire that filled my heart of old Gave luster while it burned; Now only ashes gray and cold Are in its silence urned. Ah! better was the furious flame, The splendor with the smart;...
Nor did we lack our own right royal king, The glory of our peaceful realm and race. By no long years of restless travailing, By no fierce wars or intrigues bland and base,...
Love on the earth alit, Come to be Lord of it; Looked round and laughed with glee, Noble my empery! Straight ere that laugh was done Sprang forth the royal sun, Pouring out golden shine...
When one is forty years and seven, Is seven and forty sad years old, He looks not onward for his Heaven, The future is too blank and cold, Its pale flowers smell of graveyard mould;...