Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead. Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave The busy marge, he lies unvisited, Unsung; above no cypress branches wave, Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave;...
From the dust, and the drought, and the heat, I am borne on the pinions of leave, From the things that are bad to repeat To the things that are good to receive.
Ye distant Hills, ye smiling glades, In decent foliage drest, Where green Sylvanus proudly shades The Sirkar's haughty crest, And ye, that in your wider reign...
In Spring there are lashings of new books, In Autumn fresh novels are sold, They are many, but my shelf has few books, My comrades, the favourites of old;...
I am tired of the day with its profitless labours, And tired of the night with its lack of repose, I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours,...