On Burns
In whomsoe'er, since Poesy began,
A Poet most of all men we may scan,
Burns of all poets is the most a Man
In whomsoe'er, since Poesy began,
A Poet most of all men we may scan,
Burns of all poets is the most a Man
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace
The pasture gleams and glooms'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
IN are the night-skirts left
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas
the shred of
Even as a child, of sorrow that we
The dead, but little in his heart can find,
Since without need of thought to his clear
Their turn it is to die and his to live:—Even so the winged New Love smiles to
'Twixt those twin worlds,—the world of Sleep, which
No dream to warn,—the tidal world of Death,
Which the earth's sea, as the earth, replenisheth,—Shelley,
Song's orient sun, to breast the wave,
The blessed damozel leaned
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the
Of waters stilled at even;
AH yes, exactly so; but when a man Has trundled out of England into France And half through Belgium, always in this prance Of steam, and still has stuck to his first plan— Blank verse or sonnets; and as he began Would end;—why, even the blankest v...
When vain desire at last and vain
Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain,
What shall assuage the unforgotten
And teach the unforgetful to forget
On the first day the priest Could find no heart in the beast,
And two on the second day
Epitaph All beauty to pourtray,
Therein his duty lay,
And still through toilsome strife Duty to him was life—Most thankful still that duty Lay in the paths of beauty
To the memory of William Blake, a Painter and
She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted
Of weary eyelids
The pain nought else might yet relieve
What smouldering senses in death's sick
Or seizure of malign
Can rob this body of honour, or
This soul of wedding-raiment worn to-day