To Mrs. Barber
See, the bright Sun renews his annual Course,
Each Beam re--tinges, and revives its Force,
By Years uninjur'd; so may'st thou remain,
Not Time from thee, but thou from Time may'st gain:
O might the Fates thy vital Thread prolong,
And make thy Life immortal, as thy Song!
Less Lustre waits the God, when he refines
The rip'ning Metal in Peruvian Mines;
Brightens the Crystal with transparent Day,
Or points the Di'mond with its sparkling Ray;
Than when, delighted, he thy Soul inspires,
Informs thy Judgment, and thy Fancy fires;
Assists thee striking out some bold Design,
And breathes immortal Honours on each Line:
In common as His Rays on all descend,
So You the Great delight, the Poor befriend:
As Heat productive His bright Beams bestow,
So, warm with Life, your pow'rful Numbers flow:
As He from Clouds bursts forth divinely bright,
So Envy sets You in a fairer Light:
Yet, tho' thus far Similitude we see,
One Thing disturbs the wond'rous Harmony;
With faded Light the Winter Sun appears,
Whilst You shine brighter in Decline of Years.
poem by Mary Barber
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Related quotes
Why dost thou Shade thy Lovely Face?
1 Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? Oh, why
2 Does that eclipsing hand so long deny
3 The sunshine of thy soul-enliv'ning eye?
4 Without that light, what light remains in me?
5 Thou art my life, my way, my light; in thee
6 I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
7 Thou art mv life; if thou but turn away
8 My life's a thousand deaths: thou art my way;
9 Without thee, Lord, I travel not, but stray.
10 My light thou art; without thy glorious sight
11 Mine eyes are darken'd with perpetual night.
12 My God, thou art my way, my life, my light.
13 Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly:
14 Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!
15 Thou art my life; if thou withdraw, I die.
16 Mine eyes are blind and dark, I cannot see;
17 To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
18 But to the light? and who's that light but thee?
19 My path is lost, my wand'ring steps do stray;
20 I cannot safely go, nor safely stay;
21 Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
22 Oh, I am dead: to whom shall I, poor I,
23 Repair? to whom shall my sad ashes fly,
24 But life? and where is life but in thine eye?
25 And yet thou turn'st away thy face, and fly'st me;
26 And yet I sue for grace, and thou deny'st me;
27 Speak, art thou angry, Lord, or only try'st me?
28 Unscreen those heavenly lamps, or tell me why
29 Thou shad'st thy face; perhaps thou think'st no eye
30 Can view those flames, and not drop down and die.
31 If that be all, shine forth, and draw thee nigher;
32 Let me behold and die, for my desire
33 Is ph{oe}nix-like to perish in that fire.
34 Death-conquer'd Laz'rus was redeem'd by thee;
35 If I am dead, Lord, set death's prisoner free;
36 Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?
37 If my puff'd life be out, give leave to tine
38 My shameless snuff at that bright lamp of thine;
39 Oh, what's thy light the less for lighting mine?
40 If I have lost my path, great Shepherd, say,
41 Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
42 Lord, shall a lamb of Israel's sheep-fold stray?
43 Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,
44 The dead man's life; on thee my hopes rely;
45 If thou remove, I err, I grope, I die.
46 Disclose thy sunbeams; close thy wings, and stay;
47 See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
48 O thou, that art my light, my life, my way.
poem by Francis Quarles
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The Change
POOR River, now thou'rt almost dry,
What Nymph, or Swain, will near thee lie?
Since brought, alas! to sad Decay,
What Flocks, or Herds, will near thee stay?
The Swans, that sought thee in thy Pride,
Now on new Streams forgetful ride:
And Fish, that in thy Bosom lay,
Chuse in more prosp'rous Floods to play.
All leave thee, now thy Ebb appears,
To waste thy sad Remains in Tears;
Nor will thy mournful Murmurs heed.
Fly, wretched Stream, with all thy speed,
Amongst those solid Rocks thy Griefs bestow;
For Friends, like those alas! thou ne'er did'st know.
And thou, poor Sun! that sat'st on high;
But late, the Splendour of the Sky;
What Flow'r, tho' by thy Influence born,
Now Clouds prevail, will tow'rds thee turn?
Now Darkness sits upon thy Brow,
What Persian Votary will bow?
What River will her Smiles reflect,
Now that no Beams thou can'st direct?
By watry Vapours overcast,
Who thinks upon thy Glories past?
If present Light, nor Heat we get,
Unheeded thou may'st rise, and set.
Not all the past can one Adorer keep,
Fall, wretched Sun, to the more faithful Deep.
Nor do thou, lofty Structure! boast,
Since undermin'd by Time and Frost:
Since thou canst no Reception give,
In untrod Meadows thou may'st live.
None from his ready Road will turn,
With thee thy wretched Change to mourn.
Not the soft Nights, or chearful Days
Thou hast bestow'd, can give thee Praise.
No lusty Tree that near thee grows,
(Tho' it beneath thy Shelter rose)
Will to thy Age a Staff become.
Fall, wretched Building! to thy Tomb.
Thou, and thy painted Roofs, in Ruin mixt,
Fall to the Earth, for That alone is fixt.
The same, poor Man, the same must be
Thy Fate, now Fortune frowns on thee.
Her Favour ev'ry one pursues,
And losing Her, thou all must lose.
No Love, sown in thy prosp'rous Days,
Can Fruit in this cold Season raise:
No Benefit, by thee conferr'd,
Can in this time of Storms be heard.
All from thy troubl'd Waters run;
Thy stooping Fabrick all Men shun.
All do thy clouded Looks decline,
As if thou ne'er did'st on them shine.
O wretched Man! to other World's repair;
For Faith and Gratitude are only there.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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The Return Of Youth
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time
Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,--
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.
Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,
Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age--
Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.
Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die.
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.
There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
Life's early glory to thine eyes again,
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.
Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,
Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear
A gentle rustling of the morning gales;
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore,
Of streams that water banks for ever fair,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
More musical in that celestial air?
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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You Are My Light
If you need a shoulder to lean on,
Here's mine,
Or tears, for you to cry
Or if you need a smile
To help you feel all right
You can have all mine
For you are my light.,
So if you need an ear
For troubles just to hear
Mine are just for you
Your voice are theirs to hear.
So shine your light on me
Shine your light on me
Shine it day or night
Shine it dim or bright.
And if you are in trouble
And your eyes are full of tears
And no one has came around
But troubles which are fears.
And if no one picks you up
When you are lying down
Everyone has ran away
And no one comes around.
So just shine your light on me
Shine that life of thee
Shine it bright or dim
But let it come on in,
And shine that light on me
Shine it so bright and free
And know by your light
You can finally see,
And if you loose your way
In the valley of despair
Open up your eyes again
For your troubles are mine to share,
And shine your light on me
Shine it bright and free
Be it day or night
But shine your life’s light.
And remember and don’t forget
That when you are upset
That to shine your light again
For you've got more than a friend,
And shine your light on me
Shine that life of thee
Be it bright or dim
But let it come on in,
And shine that light on me
Shine it out of thee
Be it bright or dim
For you, have more than a friend.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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A Hymn for Noon
The sun is swiftly mounted high;
It glitters in the southern sky;
Its beams with force and glory beat,
And fruitful earth is fill'd with heat.
Father, also with Thy fire
Warm the cold, the dead desire,
And make the sacred love of Thee
Within my soul a sun to me.
Let it shine so fairly bright
That nothing else be took for light,
That worldly charms be seen to fade,
And in its lustre find a shade.
Let it strongly shine within
To scatter all the clouds of sin,
That drive when gusts of passion rise
And intercept it from our eyes.
Let its glory more than vie
With the sun that lights the sky;
Let it swiftly mount in air,
Mount with that, and leave it there,
And soar with more aspiring flight
To realms of everlasting light.
Thus, while here I'm forc'd to be,
I daily wish to live with Thee,
And feel that union which Thy love
Will, after death, complete above.
From my soul I send my prayer;
Great creator, bow Thine ear;
Thou for whose propitious sway
The world was taught to see the day,
Who spake the word and earth begun
And show'd its beauties in the sun;
With pleasure I Thy creatures view,
And would with good affection, too,
Good affection sweetly free,
Loose from them and move to Thee;
O teach me due returns to give,
And to Thy glory let me live,
And then my days shall shine the more
Or pass more blessed than before.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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On The Star Of 'The Legion Of Honour' (From The French)
Star of the brave!--whose beam hath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,
Wild meteor of immortal birth;
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a volcano of the skies.
Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
Of three bright colours, each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom's hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.
One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes;
One the pure Spirit's veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.
And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!
Presence
ALL things give token of thee!
As soon as the bright sun is shining,
Thou too wilt follow, I trust.
When in the garden thou walk'st,
Thou then art the rose of all roses,
Lily of lilies as well.
When thou dost move in the dance,
Then each constellation moves also;
With thee and round thee they move.
Night! oh, what bliss were the night!
For then thou o'ershadow'st the lustre,
Dazzling and fair, of the moon.
Dazzling and beauteous art thou,
And flowers, and moon, and the planets
Homage pay, Sun, but to thee.
Sun! to me also be thou
Creator of days bright and glorious;
Life and Eternity this!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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To Atthis The Inconstant
Fragments 33, 57A, 44, 41, 70, 58 combined.
I loved thee, Atthis, — even thee! —
Ah, long ago!
As Aphrodite's handmaid bright
As gold wert thou then in my sight.
A very queen of love to me
Then didst thou show.
Fair gifts I sent thee — 'broidery
Of golden thread whose shimmering light
Flashed mid the purple on thy knee,
A gleam and glow.
Then I knew not thine heart aright:
But now I know!
Thou incarnate false inconstancy —
To whom I grow
A thing to hate! — thou takest flight
On wings of love to — who is she?
A rustic wench whose garments flow
About her heels ungracefully!
O yea, let thy false love requite
Andromeda's worship! Take delight
In her — thou who from my love's height
Hast sunk so low!
The Beggar
Encouraged by thy word
Of promise to the poor;
Behold, a beggar, Lord,
Waits at thy mercy's door!
No hand, no heart, O Lord, but thine,
Can help or pity wants like mine.
The beggar's usual plea
Relief from men to gain,
If offered unto thee,
I know thou would'st disdain:
And pleas which move thy gracious ear,
Are such as men would scorn to hear.
I have no right to say
That though I now am poor,
Yet once there was a day
When I possessed more:
Thou know'st that from my very birth,
I've been the poorest wretch on earth.
Nor can I dare profess,
As beggars often do,
Though great is my distress,
My wants have been but few:
If thou shouldst leave my soul to starve,
It would be what I well deserve.
'Twere folly to pretend
I never begged before;
Or if thou now befriend,
I'll trouble thee no more:
Thou often hast relieved my pain,
And often I must come again.
Though crumbs are much too good
For such a dog as I;
No less than children's food
My soul can satisfy:
O do not frown and bid me go,
I must have all thou canst bestow.
poem by John Newton
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The Poet and the Sun~2
The Sun
O, it is enough, issue of Adam, make me not shy,
Thou shine on the earth and I in the sky,
The light of thy wisdom is brighter than me,
Thy knowledge bears the same what my beams,
I take a journey daily from the east to the west just for thee,
Cause thou art the reason of all my dreams.
Ah! But ye proud on only being the best creature,
And standing at the same place did wherein ye venture,
Thou jealous if one of thee lives in pleasure,
And move from sky to earth to snatch his leisure,
O, thou selfish, and cheat the people of thine,
This is why thou constant falling into disgrace-rine.
They took birth to die, who were before thee,
And showed their lives like mirror not only fly,
And on their might they did always believe,
And were frightful to God and ye to die,
The witness of thy success are sky, land and sea,
But, thou coward and selfish so ye severely grieve.
O, create pain for thy people in thee again,
If thy former culmination thou wish to gain,
With spiritual laws, never, o never compromise,
And be hopeful, shortly thy sun is to rise,
Thou art called knights if tin remain in one,
Else will be abolished thy being one by one.
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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The Child’s Dream
Buried in childhood’s cloudless dreams, a fair-haired nursling lay,
A soft smile hovered round the lips as if still oped to pray;
And then a vision came to him, of beauty, strange and mild,
Such as may only fill the dreams of a pure sinless child.
Stood by his couch an angel fair, with radiant, glitt’ring wings
Of hues as bright as the living gems the fount to Heaven flings;
With loving smile he bent above the fair child cradled there,
While sounds of sweet seraphic power stole o’er the fragrant air.
“Child, list to me,” he softly said, “on mission high I’m here:
Sent by that Glorious One to whom Heav’n bows in loving fear;
I seek thee now, whilst thou art still on the threshold of earth’s strife,
To speak of what thou knowest not yet, this new and wond’rous life.
“Dost cling to it? dost find this earth a fair and lovely one?
Dost love its bright-dyed birds and flowers, its radiant golden sun?
I come to bid thee leave it all—to turn from its bright bloom,
And, having closed thine eyes in death, descend into the tomb.
“Thou shudderest, child! with restless gaze from me thou turn’st away;
’Mid summer flowers and singing birds wouldst thou remain to play;
Thou still wouldst bask in the dear light of thy fond father’s smile,
And on thy mother’s doating heart would linger yet awhile.
“’Tis well, sweet child, I blame thee not, but in spheres far away
Are blossoms lovelier far than those which tempt thee here to stay;
And if the love of parents fond with joy thy heart doth fill,
In those bright distant realms is One who loves thee better still!
“That One for thee in suffering lived—for thy sake, too, he died;
Oh! like the ocean is His love, as deep, my child, as wide.
Leave, then, this earth ere hideous sin thy spotless brow shall dim—
One struggling breath, one parting pang, and then thou’lt be with Him!”
A smile lit up the sleeper’s face, but soon it softly fled,
The rose leaf cheeks and lips grew wan—could it be the child was dead?
Yes, dead—and spared the ills of life, and in bright bliss above
The pure soul nestles in the light of God’s unbounded Love.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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A light through my heart
The sunrises brightly as ever
with sparkling rays of light
That beams brightly in the morning
Forcing flowers opening to greet thee!
Spreading fine fragrances to smell
Thats the sun spreading smiles
Thats the sun breaking the dawn
Which heralded the beginning of a new day...
I love the sun, though it only makes my day
A bright daylights to behold and to felt
But sun suddnely sets at west side
Slowly it sets to heralded the nightfall
Night that makes me blinded of myself
Untill the moonlight arrived to my rescued
With bright-yellowish lights
And a charming smiles
That revives and rejuvinates my soul
And I danced dearly to believed
I love the mighty moonlight more than you know!
All in all it brighten my heart!
All in all it gives meanings to my nights
But it stayed only for a while
Such sudden demises of joy
Leaving the stars to take over the job
Bright little stars
Sparkling with passions from above
Bright little beauties
My gate to wonderful nights dreams
Dreams where I saw only you, unwritten soul!
Forget the moribund moonlight
I love the stars eager to pick one
But the stars can only be seen at night
It disappeared at dawn breaks
But I need light
I need light that never fades
Light that will always be there to blessed my steps
Sunlights, moonlight and the stars never stayed
But there is only one light
I means only one light that never fades
Neither during the day, nor at night
Light that went straight to my heart
I means straight to my heart
Light neither thin, nor fat
Neither tall, nor short
And neithrt widem nor deep
I mean light upon light
Light that neither rise, not fall
But it is meant to stayed
Meant stayed and make me bright even in the dark!
It is there even when the sun sets
It is there where no star shines
Still shining even when moonlight moved
Thats my love to an Unwritten Soul!
Whose smiles can move the Malaysian mountain!
Thats Unwritten Soul
I meant my words....
A light through my heart.....
¤NTA! !
(28/07/2012)
22: 30 - 22: 44
poem by Naseeru Taneemu Annuree
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To My Excellent Lucasia, On Our Friendship
I did not live until this time
Crown'd my felicity,
When I could say without a crime,
I am not thine, but thee.
This carcass breath'd, and walkt, and slept,
So that the world believe'd
There was a soul the motions kept;
But they were all deceiv'd.
For as a watch by art is wound
To motion, such was mine:
But never had Orinda found
A soul till she found thine;
Which now inspires, cures and supplies,
And guides my darkened breast:
For thou art all that I can prize,
My joy, my life, my rest.
No bridegroom's nor crown-conqueror's mirth
To mine compar'd can be:
They have but pieces of the earth,
I've all the world in thee.
Then let our flames still light and shine,
And no false fear controul,
As innocent as our design,
Immortal as our soul.
poem by Katherine Philips
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Homer's Hymn To The Moon
Daughters of Jove, whose voice is melody,
Muses, who know and rule all minstrelsy
Sing the wide-winged Moon! Around the earth,
From her immortal head in Heaven shot forth,
Far light is scattered—boundless glory springs;
Where’er she spreads her many-beaming wings
The lampless air glows round her golden crown.
But when the Moon divine from Heaven is gone
Under the sea, her beams within abide,
Till, bathing her bright limbs in Ocean’s tide,
Clothing her form in garments glittering far,
And having yoked to her immortal car
The beam-invested steeds whose necks on high
Curve back, she drives to a remoter sky
A western Crescent, borne impetuously.
Then is made full the circle of her light,
And as she grows, her beams more bright and bright
Are poured from Heaven, where she is hovering then,
A wonder and a sign to mortal men.
The Son of Saturn with this glorious Power
Mingled in love and sleep--to whom she bore
Pandeia, a bright maid of beauty rare
Among the Gods, whose lives eternal are.
Hail Queen, great Moon, white-armed Divinity,
Fair-haired and favourable! thus with thee
My song beginning, by its music sweet
Shall make immortal many a glorious feat
Of demigods, with lovely lips, so well
Which minstrels, servants of the Muses, tell.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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To Catharine
I'll love thee as long as I live,
Whate'er thy condition may be;
All else but my life would I give,
That thou wast as partial to me.
I love thee because thou art fair,
And fancy no other beside;
I languish thy pleasures to share,
Whatever my life may betide.
I'll love thee when youth's vital beam
Grows dim on the visage of cares;
And trace back on time's rapid stream,
Thy beauty when sinking in years.
Though nature no longer is gay,
With blooms which the simple adore,
Let virtue forbid me to say,
That Cath'rine is lovely no more.
poem by George Moses Horton
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Elegy on the death of Cleora
No more of Zephyr's airy robe I'll sing,
Or balmy odours dropping from his wing,
Or how his spicy breath revives the lands,
And curls the waves which roll o'er crystal sands.
No more I'll paint the glowing hemisphere,
Or rocks ambitious, piercing upper air;
The subjects of the grave demand my lay,
Spectator now, I soon shall be as they.
Cleora, art thou gone? thou dost not hear
The voice of grief, nor see the dropping tear;
And yet, it soothes my sorrows while I mourn
In artless verse, and weep upon thy urn.
---Tho' bright from thee the rays of beauty stream'd,
Thy mind irradiate, stronger graces beam'd;
The meteor shone so permanent and fair,
Who'd not mistook the vapour for a star?
---E'en then---when lying poets flattering breath
Pronounc'd so fair a form exempt from death;
The icy angel met her on the plain,
And bade our friend adorn his ghastly train;
The vital heat forsakes her loitering blood;
The blood stands still---the springs of life all stood;
Down sunk the fair, while nature gave a groan,
To see her noblest structure fall so soon.
But say, some pow'r, where is the spirit fled,
To wait the time when it shall join the dead?
Say, springs her active soul beyond the skies,
Or still around the clay enamour'd flies?
Or sits exalted on th' empyreal height,
'Midst deluges of primogenial light?
Or else expatiates, with enlarged pow'rs,
Where mortal man's conception never soars?
---Ah! when the brittle bands of life are burst,
To meet her on the shores of bliss. I trust;
Sure I shall know her in the realms above,
By those sweet eyes which beam incessant love:
There we'll renew the friendship here begun,
But which shall last thro' th' eternal noon:
Till then suspend my fond enquiries, where,
And with what souls she breathes immortal air;
Meanwhile, with imitative art I'll try,
Nobly like her to live---like her to die!
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Thou Art My Lute
Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,--
My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing,
And meltest me to melody.
Thou art my life, by thee I live,
From thee proceed the joys I know;
Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give
The meed of love--the cup of woe.
Thou art my love, by thee I lead
My soul the paths of light along,
From vale to vale, from mead to mead,
And home it in the hills of song.
My song, my soul, my life, my all,
Why need I pray or make my plea,
Since my petition cannot fall;
For I 'm already one with thee!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Indian Cupid
Who is he that swiftly comes
In the lovely silence of night?—
I know him by his sparkling plumes,
That shine in the clear moonlight;
By the scarlet wings of his soaring bird,
And the ceaseless music round him heard.
I know him by his arrows,
And by his blossom'd bow;
By the forms of radiant beauty that bear,
And softly wave in the perfumed air,
His standard to and fro.
Often and long, on the summer sea,
In the moonlight have I watched for thee—
When the glittering beam was downward thrown,
And each wave with a crest of diamond shone.
I have seen the thin clouds sail along,
And I raised, to welcome thee, many a song;
But long have I lingered, and watch'd in vain,
To see the light of the starry train
Sweep in beauty across the sky,
To tones of heavenly harmony.
Now I behold thee! now 'tis the hour—
Yes! thou art come in thy splendour and power!—
But, no! the vision is passing on,
The bright forms vanish one by one—
On the desolate shore I am left alone!
Yet stay! oh, stay!—like lightning they move—
To well, by thy fleetness, I know thou art Love!
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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A Woman’s Sonnets: XII
'Tis ended truly, truly as was best.
Love is a little thing, for one short day;
You could not make it your life's only quest,
Nor watch the poor corpse long in its decay.
Go forth, dear, thou hast much to do on earth;
In life's campaign there waits thee a great part,
Much to be won and conquered of more worth
Than this poor victory of a woman's heart.
For me the daylight of my years is dim.
I seek not gladness, yet shall find content
In such small duties as are learned of Him
Who bore all sorrows, till my youth is spent.
Yet come what may to me of weal or woe,
I love thee, bless thee, dear, where'er thou go.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Song. Where dost thou bide
WHERE dost thou bide, blessed soul of my love!
Is ether thy dwelling, O whisper me where!
Rapt in remembrance, while lonely I rove,
I gaze on bright clouds, and I fancy thee there.
Or to thy bower when musing I go,
I think, 't is thy voice that I hear in the breeze;
Softly it seems to speak peace to my woe,
And life once again for a moment can please.
If this be phrensy alone, 't is so dear,
That long may the pleasing delusion be nigh;
Still Ellen's voice in the breeze may I hear,
Still see in bright clouds the kind beams of her eye!
poem by Amelia Opie
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