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And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour !
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the fairy power
Of unreflecting love — then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

7. Keats



URPRISED by joy — impatient as the wind

O with whom But Thee — deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find ?

Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind
But how could I forget thee? through what power
Even for the least division of an hour
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss ? — That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

W. Wordsworth


AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,


To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in

thine eye ;

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions

of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me

there And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky !

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on

the ear;

And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison

rolls, I think, O my Love ! 't is thy voice, from the Kingdom

of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

T. Moore




ND thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth ;
And forms so soft and charms so rare

Too soon return'd to Earth !
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread

In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low

Nor gaze upon the spot ;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow

So I behold them not :
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved and long must love

Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell
’T is Nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last,

As fervently as thou
Who didst not change through all the past

And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow :
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine :
The sun that cheers, the storm that lours

Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away
I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd

Must fall the earliest prey ;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,

The leaves must drop away.

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And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,

Than see it pluck'd to-day ;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne

To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade :
Thy day without a cloud hath past,
And thou wert lovely to the last,

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept if I could weep,

My tears might well be shed
To think I was not near, to keep

One vigil o'er thy bed :
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain

Than thus remember thee !
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity

Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.

Lord Byron



NE word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdain'd

For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear

Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love ;

But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above

And the Heavens reject not :
The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

P. B. Shelley




PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu

Pibroch of Donuil
Wake thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons !
Come in your war-array,

Gentles and commons.

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