Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him, The little gray leaves were kind to Him:...
"Do you remember me? or are you proud?" Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and lookt into my eyes, "A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be,...
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife: Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art: I warm'd both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks; and I am ready to depart.
Lately our poets loiter'd in green lanes, Content to catch the ballads of the plains; I fancied I had strength enough to climb A loftier station at no distant time, And might securely from intrusion doze...
Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower, Some in the chill, some in the warmer hour: Alike they flourish and alike they fall, And Earth who nourisht them receives them all....
Struggling, and faint, and fainter didst thou wane, O Moon! and round thee all thy starry train Came forth to help thee, with half-open eyes, And trembled every one with still surprise,...
Tell me not what too well I know About the bard of Sirmio. Yes, in Thalia's son Such stains there are, as when a Grace Sprinkles another's laughing face With nectar, and runs on.
Once, and once only, have I seen thy face, Elia! once only has thy tripping tongue Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left Impression on it stronger or more sweet....
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art; I warm'd both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
To my ninth decade I have tottered on, And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady; She, who once led me where she would, is gone, So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
I strove with none; for none was worth my strife, Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life, It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Is it not better at an early hour In its calm cell to rest the weary head, While birds are singing and while blooms the bower, Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed?
Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou 'rt dust; All that remains of thee these plaits unfold, Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold.
Many love music but for music's sake; Many because her touches can awake Thoughts that repose within the breast half dead, And rise to follow where she loves to lead....
Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust. All that remains of thee these plaits unfold, Calm hair, meandering in pellucid gold.
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...
Who will away to Athens with me? who Loves choral songs and maidens crown'd with flowers, Unenvious? mount the pinnace; hoist the sail. I promise ye, as many as are here,...