Dust on the page, from these forgetful years! I brush it off, to see the fading date Written in boyish hand; to find through tears The lad's dear name, inscribed with all the state...
Roses about my way, and roses still! 0, I must pick and have my very fill! Red for my heart and white upon my hair And still I shall have roses and to spare! My child, I save thee thorns! Dear little friend,...
Dawn, midnight, noonday? What are times to thee Man's Grief art thou, that moanest with the light, And starest dumb at evening, and at night Dost wake and dream and slumber fitfully!...
Oh no, not this! This is a Roman face, Superb, composed, with such a matron grace As that of great Cornelia, never thee. Young princess of an ancient poetry!
The bride, she wears a white, white rose, the plucking, it was mine; The poet wears a laurel wreath, and I the laurel twine; And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you,...
I am a virgin, whom no man hath known, And all desire to know. The figure I Of mortal dream and mortal prophecy. Thou desert Sphinx, with thy gray lips of stone, Keep thy poor secret, I have kept mine own!
Get you away! Is not the rose at flow'r? And list that song! The bird is in the sky! Ah, foolish one, I know your final hour, I know the very place where you shall lie. ...
That haunting air had some far strain of it, That morning rose hath flung it back to met The wind of spring, the ancient, awful sea. Bid me remember it.
Ah, give again the pitiless snow and sleet November's leaves, or raving winds, that beat The heart's own doors, or rain's long ache and fret! Only, not spring and all this delicate sweet!...