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Poems

Travelling

This is the spot:—how mildly does the sunShine in between the fading leaves! the airIn the habitual silence of this woodIs more than silent: and this bed of heath,Where shall we find so sweet a resting-place?Come!—let me see thee sink into
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Perfect Woman

She was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleam'd upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time
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Modern Love

And what is love? It is a doll dress’d upFor idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;A thing of soft misnomers, so divineThat silly youth doth think to make itselfDivine by loving, and so goes onYawning and doting a whole summer long,Till
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Every day you play

“You are here. Oh, you do not run away.You will answer me to the last cry.Curl round me as though you were frightened.Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes. Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,and even your
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