Soon, O Ianthe! life is o’er, And sooner beauty’s heavenly smile… Grant only (and I ask no more), Let love remain that little while.

PROUD word you never spoke, but… Four not exempt from pride some fu… Resting on one white hand a warm w… Over my open volume you will say, “This man loved me!” then rise and…

There is delight in singing, tho’… Beside the singer; and there is de… In praising, tho’ the praiser sit… And see the prais’d far off him, f… Shakspeare is not our poet, but th…

IS it not better at an early hour In its calm cell to rest the weary… While birds are singing and while… Than sit the fire out and go starv…

FATHER! the little girl we see Is not, I fancy, so like me; You never hold her on your knee. When she came home, the other day, You kiss’d her; but I cannot say

Avon! why runnest thou away so fas… Rest thee before that Chance! whe… The bones of him whose spirit move… I have beheld thy birthplace, I h… Thy tiny ripples where they played…

Who will away to Athens with me?… Loves choral songs and maidens cro… Unenvious? mount the pinnace; hois… I promise ye, as many as are here, Ye shall not, while ye tarry with…

I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson, Come and share my haunch of veniso… I have too a bin of claret, Good, but better when you share it… Tho’ 'tis only a small bin,

To my ninth decade I have tottere… And no soft arm bends now my steps… She, who once led me where she wou… So when he calls me, Death shall…

HOW many verses have I thrown Into the fire because the one Peculiar word, the wanted most, Was irrecoverably lost!

On, for the spirit of that matchle… Whom Nature led throughout her wh… While he embodied breathed etheria… Though panting in the play—hour of… I drank of Avon too, a dangerous…

Thou hast not rais’d, Ianthe, suc… In any breast as thou hast rais’d… No wandering meteor now, no marshy… Leads on my steps, but lofty, but… And, if thou chillest me, as chill…

NO, my own love of other years! No, it must never be. Much rests with you that yet endea… Alas! but what with me? Could those bright years o’er me r…

Against the groaning mast I stand… The Atlantic surges swell, To bear me from my native land And Zoë's wild farewell. From billow upon billow hurl’d

Very true, the linnets sing Sweetest in the leaves of spring: You have found in all these leaves That which changes and deceives, And, to pine by sun or star,