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Страница 61 - Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell : It fell upon a little western flower, — Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, — And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Страница 70 - You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the Summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.
Страница 73 - Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimmed with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch; each porch, each door ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Страница 126 - Will I upon thy party wear this rose : And here I prophesy ; — This brawl to-day Grown to this faction, in the Temple garden, Shall send, between the red rose and the white, A thousand souls to death and deadly night.
Страница 32 - So yellow, green, and sickly too; Ask me why the stalk is weak, And bending, yet it doth not break ; I must tell you, these discover What doubts and fears are in a lover.
Страница 29 - With woodbine, many a perfume breathed From plants that wake when others sleep, From timid jasmine buds, that keep Their odour to themselves all day, But, when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about...
Страница 56 - Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep, Need we to prove a God is here; The daisy, fresh from winter's sleep, Tells of his hand in lines as clear.
Страница 56 - And cut the gold-embossed gem, That, set in silver, gleams within ! And fling it, unrestrained and free, O'er hill and dale, and desert sod, That man, where'er he walks, may see In every step the stamp of God.
Страница 183 - Weak with nice sense, the chaste MIMOSA stands, From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands; Oft as light clouds o'erpass the Summer-glade, Alarmed she trembles at the moving shade; And feels, alive through all her tender form, The whisper'd murmurs of the gathering storm; Shuts her sweet eye-lids to approaching night; And hails with freshen'd charms the rising light.
Страница 120 - Yet dropping with Aurora's gems, And fresh inhale the spicy sighs That from the weeping buds arise. When revel reigns, when mirth is high, And Bacchus beams in every eye, Our rosy fillets scent exhale, And fill with balm the fainting gale ! Oh ! there is nought in nature bright, Where roses do not shed their light! When morning paints the orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes...