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Alcestis to her husband, just beforewith his tearful approbation, she diesin order that he may live. Admetus, from my marrow’s core I do Despise you: wherefrom pity not your wife, Who, having seen expire her love for you With heaviest…
It is the fashion now to wave asideAs tedious, obvious, vacuous, trivial, trite,All things which do not tickle, tease, exciteTo some subversion, or in verbiage hideIntent, or mock, or with hot sauce provideA dish to prick the thickened appetite;Straightforwardness is…
And if I die, because that part of meWhich part alone of me had chance to live,Chose to be honour’s threshing floor, a sieveWhere right through wrong might make its way, and be;If from all taint of indignation, freeMust be…
To hold secure the province of Pure Art,—What if the crude and weighty task were mine?—For him who runs, cutting the pen less fineThan formerly, and in the indignant heartDipping it straight? (to issue thence a dart,And shine no more…
And is indeed truth beauty?—at the costOf all that we cared for, can this be?—To see the coarse triumphant, and to seeHonour and pity ridiculed, and tossedUpon a poked-at fire; all courage lostSave what is whelped and fattened by decreeTo…
Tranquility at length when autumn comes,Will lie upon the spirit like that hazeTouching far islands on fine autumn daysWith tenderest blue, like bloom on purple plums;Harvest will ring, but not as summer hums,With noisy enterprise—to broaden, raise,Proceed, proclaim, establish: autumn…
Not, to me, less lavish—though my dreams have been splendid—Than dreams, have been the hours of the actual day:Never, awaking, did I awake to say:“Nothing could be like that,” when a dream was ended.Colours, in dream; ecstasy, in dream extendedBeyond…
Those hours when happy hours were my estate,—Entailed, as proper, for the next in line,Yet mine the harvest, and the title mine—Those acres, fertile, and the furrows straight,From which the lark would rise—all of my lateEnchantments, still, in brilliant colours,…
IBefore this cooling planet shall be cold,Long, long before the music of the Lyre,Like the faint roar of distant breakers rolledOn reefs unseen, when wind and flood conspireTo drive the ships inshore—long, long, I say,Before this ominous humming hits the…
How innocent of me and my dark pain In the clear east, unclouded save for one Flamingo-coloured feather, combed and spun Into fine spirals, with ephemeral stain To dye the morning rose after the rain, Rises the simple and majestic…