Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
Robert Browning
If one could have that little head of hers
Let us begin and carry up this corpse,
So far as our story approaches the end,
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
What a pretty tale you told me
Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
O the old wall here! How I could pass
Let's contend no more, Love,
Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build,
Karshish, the picker up of learning's crumbs,
But do not let us quarrel any more,
No, for I'll save it! Seven years since
Such a starved bank of moss
"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself."
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
What is he buzzing in my ears?
Christ God who savest man, save most
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
Here's my case. Of old I used to love him.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety two,
Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak!
Oh, to be in England
Nobly, nobly, Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away;
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
He sings.
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
Of the million or two, more or less,
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
All I believed is true!
This is a spray the bird clung to,
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
All that I know
All I can say is--I saw it!
There they are, my fifty men and women
First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!
The rain set early in to-night,
Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
Among these latter busts we count by scores,
Grow old along with me!
Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak.
Day!
All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee:
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Morning, evening, noon, and night,
Piano di Sorrento
You're my friend:
"Heigho!" yawned one day King Francis,
The Lord, we look to once for all,
That second time they hunted me
Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,
I said--Then, dearest, since 'tis so,
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
It was roses, roses, all the way,
Hamelin town's in Brunswick,
There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well,
Grand rough old Martin Luther
I've a Friend, over the sea;
Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst
(As distinguished by an Italian person of quality.)
What's become of Waring
"Why?" Because all I haply can and do,
It once might have been, once only: