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Page 270 - FROM the Desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
Page 486 - Man who cannot look Upon his mortal days with temperate blood Who vexes all the leaves of his Life's book And robs his fair name of its maidenhood. It is as if the rose should pluck herself Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, As if a clear Lake meddling with itself Should cloud its pureness with a muddy gloom.
Page 270 - Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade; Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade; Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Page 15 - The fringed lids of hazel eyes, With soft brown tresses overblown. Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves, Of moonlit wave and willowy way, Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves, And smiles and tones more dear than they!
Page 485 - But the faithful fighters of this hour, or the beings that then and there will represent them, may turn to the faint-hearted, who here decline to go on, with words like those with which Henry IV greeted the tardy Crillon after a great battle had been gained: "Hang yourself, brave Crillon! We fought at Arques, and you were not there!"— The Will to Believe.
Page 103 - But the fierce flute whose notes acclaim Dim goddesses of fiery fame, Cymbal and clamorous kettledrum, Timbrels and tabrets, all are dumb That turned the high chill air to flame ; The singing tongues of fire are numb That called on Cotys by her name Edonian, till they felt her come And maddened, and her mystic face Lightened along the streams of Thrace.
Page 104 - A little time that we may fill Or with such good works or such ill As loose the bonds or make them strong Wherein all manhood suffers wrong. By rose-hung river and light-foot rill There are who rest not ; who think long Till they discern as from a hill At the sun's hour of morning song, Known of souls only, and those souls free, The sacred spaces of the sea.
Page 15 - A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl, With step as light as summer air, Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl Of unconfined and flowing hair...
Page 15 - He had never before publicly acknowledged how much of his heart was wrapped up in this delightful play of poetic fancy. The poem was written in 1841, and although the romance it embalms lies far back of this date, possibly there is a heart still beating which fully understands its meaning. The biographer can do no more than make this suggestion, which has the sanction of the poet's explicit word.
Page 486 - You cannot eat your cake and have it too." — Proverb. How fever'd is the man, who cannot look Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, And robs his fair name of its maidenhood : It is as if the rose should pluck herself, Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, Should darken her pure grot with muddy- gloom : But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, And the ripe plum...