Poems — Volume 1

How low when angels fall their black descent, MODERN LOVE, 181 I. By this he knew she wept with waking eyes: II. It ended, and the morrow brought the task. III. This was the wom...

LOVE within the lover’s breast Burns like Hesper in the west, O’er the ashes of the sun, Till the day and night are done; Then when dawn drives up her car— Lo! it is the morning...

Thou the ruin’s bud, Be not that moist rich-smelling weed With its arras-sembled brede, And ruin-haunting stalk; Thou the ruin’s bud, Be still the rose that lights the walk, Mix...

Morn! when the fate of all mankind Hangs poised in doubt, and man is blind. His duties of the day will seem The fact of life, and mine the dream:

‘O SISTER! couldst thou know, as thou wilt know, The bliss above, the reverence below, Enkindled by thy sacrifice for me; Thou wouldst at once with holy ecstasy Give thy warm li...

Then, slowly, one by one the chiefs sought rest; The watches being set, and men to relieve The rowers at midseason. Fair it was To see them as they lay! Some up the prow, Some r...

His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair; The moon is chill, the night is late: But I will lie beside him there: O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

I’m not ashamed: Not beaten’s still my boast: Again I’ll rouse the people up to strike. But home’s where different politics jar most. Respectability the women like. This form, o...

It ended, and the morrow brought the task. Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in By shutting all too zealous for their sin: Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask. But...

Madam would speak with me. So, now it comes: The Deluge or else Fire! She’s well; she thanks My husbandship. Our chain on silence clanks. Time leers between, above his twiddling...

I must speak to him under this roof to-night: _There is a rose that’s ready_; I shall burn to death if I speak in the light: _There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping_.

But the worst of _me_ is, that when I bow my head, I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust, And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead Of humble acceptance: for,...