#English
Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, On all the passages of sense, The atoning oil is spread with swe… Renewal of lost innocence. The feet, that lately ran so fast
Shall one be sorrowful because of… Which hath no earthly crown, Which lives and dies, unknown? Because no words of his shall ever… Her maiden heart to own
(For Arthur Symons) I was not sorrowful, I could not… And all my memories were put to sl… I watched the river grow more whit… All day till evening I watched it…
Because I am idolotrous and have… With grievous supplication and con… The admirable image that my love h… Out of her swan’s neck and her dar… The jealous gods who brook no wors…
Calm, sad, secure; behind high con… These watch the sacred lamp, these… And it is one with them when eveni… And one with them the cold return… These heed not time; their nights…
Love heeds no more the sighing of… Against the perfect flowers: thy g… Is grown a wilderness, where none… One strayed, last petal of one las… O bright, bright hair! O mouth li…
Sleep on, dear, now The last sleep and the best, And on thy brow, And on thy quiet breast Violets I throw.
A little while to walk with thee,… To lean on thee my weak and weary… Then evening comes: the winter sky… The leafless trees are black, the… A little while to hold thee and to…
Why am I sorry, Chloe? Because t… And who am I to be straitened in… Because thy face is fair? And wha… The fairest face of all is the fac… Because the land is cold, and howe…
Wine and woman and song, Three things garnish our way: Yet is day over long. Lest we do our youth wrong, Gather them while we may:
Come hither, child, and rest, This is the end of day, Behold the weary West! Sleep rounds with equal zest Man’s toil and children’s play,
Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly, Where never coos the turtle-dove, A world forgotten of the sun:
What land of Silence, Where pale stars shine On apple-blossom And dew-drenched vine, Is yours and mine?
All that I had I brought, Little enough I know; A poor rhyme roughly wrought, A rose to match thy snow: All that I had I brought.
Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Love me: we will pass and part, Ere this love grow stronger. I have loved thee, Child! too wel…