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As I upon my road did pass
WITH ROSY HAND A schoolhouse back in May,
(1846) There out upon the beäten grass 35 Were maïdens at their play ;
With rosy hand a little girl pressed down An' as the pretty souls did tweil
A boss of fresh-culled cowslips in a rill. An' smile, I cried: “The flow's
Often as they sprang up again, a frown O' beauty, then, is still in bud
Showed she disliked resistance to her In Blackmwore by the Stour.”
will: But when they drooped their heads and
shone much less, WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR She shook them to and fro, and threw
them by, (1775-1864)
And tripped away. "Ye loathe the heaviROSE AYLMER
cause, my little girls!" (1806)
thought I, Ah what avails the sceptered race,
“And what had shone for you, by you Ah what the form divine!
must die.” What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
THE MAID I LOVE
The maid I love ne'er thought of me
But when her heart or mine sank low,
Ah then it was no longer so. (1831)
From the slant palm she raised her head, 5 Past ruined Ilion Helen lives,
And kissed the cheek whence youth had
fled. Alcestis rises from the shades: Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives Angels! some future day, for this,
Give her as sweet and pure a kiss. Immortal youth to mortal maids.
With folded arms I linger not
To call them back; 'twere vain:
In this, or in some other spot,
I know they'll shine again. Proud word you never spoke, but will speak
YES: I WRITE VERSES Four not exempt from pride some
(1846) future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet
Yes: I write verses now and then; cheek,
But blunt and flaccid is my pen, Over my open volume, you will say,
No longer talked of by young men “This man loved me!" then rise and trip
As rather clever.
In the last quarter are my eyes, away.
You see it by their form and size:
Is it not time then to be wise?
Or now or never!
Fairest that ever sprang from Eve! On the smooth brow and clustering hair, While Time allows the short reprieve, 10
Myrtle and rose! your wreath combine: Just look at me! would you believe The duller olive I would wear,
'Twas once a lover? Its constancy, its peace, be mine.
I cannot clear the five-bar gate,
Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait 15
To trundle over. (1846)
Through gallopade I cannot swing Alas, how soon the hours are over
The entangling blooms of Beauty's Counted us out to play the lover!
spring; And how much narrower is the stage I cannot say the tender thing, Allotted us to play the sage!
Be't true or false;