Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Immutable as my regret. Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866] :6 WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING" So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, By the light of the moon. George Gordon Byron [1788-1824] I B Th Th The Its SONG She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing SING the old song, amid the sounds dispersing And G High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal song— Sing it, with voice low-breathed, but never name her: And And And Fairer In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses, She shades the bloom of her unearthly days; And the soft winds alone have power to woo her: Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses; And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she strays, The Question That Spirit charged to follow and defend her,— And she, perhaps, is sad, hearing his sighing: 847 Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest strain THE QUESTION I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way, Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream. There grew pied wind-flowers and violets; Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets- Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-colored may, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers, azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours Within my hand;—and then, elate and gay, I hastened to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it-O! to whom? Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] LONG, LONG AGO TELL me the tales which to me were so dear, Long, long ago, long, long ago; Sing me the songs I delighted to hear, Now you are come, all my grief is removed, Do you remember the path where we met, Ah, yes, you told me you ne'er would forget, Then, to all others my smile you preferred, Love, when you spoke, gave a charm to each word; Still my heart treasures the praises I heard Long, long ago, long ago. Though by your kindness my fond hopes were raised, Long, long ago, long, long ago; You, by more eloquent lips have been praised, Long, long ago, long ago. The Water Lady But by long absence your truth has been tried, Blest as I was when I sat by your side, Long, long ago, long ago. 849 Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839] THE WATER LADY ALAS, the moon should ever beam I stayed awhile, to see her throw I stayed a little while to view Her cheek, that wore, in place of red, I stayed to watch, a little space, And still I stayed a little more: I throw my flowers from the shore, I know my life will fade away, Thomas Hood [1799-1845] "TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH” TRIPPING down the field-path, Early in the morn, There I met my own love 'Midst the golden corn; Backward from her face; Little time for speaking Had she, for the wind, Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon, Still some sweet improvement |