PROLOGUE O, lady flora, let me speak: A pleasant hour has passed awayWhile, dreaming on your damask cheek, The dewy sister-eyelids lay.As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro’ many wayward moodsTo see you dreaming—and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods.And I…
I waited for the train at Coventry;I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,To watch the three tall spires; and there I shapedThe city’s ancient legend into this: Not only we, the latest seed of Time,New men, that in…
Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote:It was last summer on a tour in Wales:Old James was with me: we that day had beenUp Snowdon; and I wish’d for Leonard there,And found him in Llanberis: then we crostBetween…
Of love hat never found his earthly close,What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts?Or all the same as if he had not been? Not so. Shall Error in the round of timeStill father Truth? O shall the braggart shoutFor some blind…
Altho’ I be the basest of mankind,From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meetFor troops of devils, mad with blasphemy,I will not cease to grasp the hope I holdOf saintdom, and…
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake,My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year,My one Oasis in the dust and drouthOf city life! I was a sketcher then:See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge,Boat, island, ruins of a…
‘John’. I’m glad I walk’d.How fresh the meadows lookAbove the river, and, but a month ago,The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.Is yon plantation where this byway joinsThe turnpike? ‘James’. Yes. ‘John’. And when does this come by? ‘James’.…
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often look’d at them,And often thought, ‘I’ll make them man and wife.’Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all,And yearn’d toward William; but…
This morning is the morning of the day,When I and Eustace from the city wentTo see the Gardener’s Daughter; I and he,Brothers in Art; a friendship so completePortion’d in halves between us, that we grewThe fable of the city where…
At Francis Allen’s on the Christmas-eve,—The game of forfeits done—the girls all kiss’dBeneath the sacred bush and past away—The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl,Then half-way ebb’d; and there we held a talk,How…
