SONG, ON A FADED VIOLET. THE odour from the flower is gone, Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The colour from the flower is flown, Which glowed of thee, and only thee! A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, I weep-my tears revive it not! I sigh-it breathes no more on me; Its mute and uncomplaining lot Is such as mine should be. LINES TO A CRITIC. HONEY from silk-worms who can gather, The grass may grow in winter weather Hate men who cant, and men who pray, And men who rail like thee; An equal passion to repay They are not coy like me. Or seek some slave of power and gold, A passion like the one I prove I hate thy want of truth and love— December, 1817. GOOD NIGHT. Good night? ah! no; the hour is ill Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good, To hearts which near each other move TO-MORROW. WHERE art thou, beloved, To-morrow? Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow, In thy place-ah! well-a-day! DEATH. THEY die-the dead return not-Misery They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover, Misery, my sweetest friend-oh! weep no more! These tombs alone remain. |