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The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

De Vere, Aubrey (1814-1902)

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VOL. I. THE SEARCH AFTER PROSERPINE
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[section]
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RECOLLECTIONS OF GREECE,
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[section]
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KING HENRY THE SECOND AT THE TOMB OF KING ARTHUR,
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SONNETS.
  
[dedication]
 I. 
I. TO COLERIDGE.
 II. 
II. TO E.—1.
 III. 
III. TO E.—2.
 IV. 
IV. TO E.—3.
 V. 
V. TO E.—4.
 VI. 
VI. ART AND SCIENCE.
 VII. 
VII. TO POWER.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
 X. 
X.
 XI. 
XI.
 XII. 
XII.
 XIII. 
XIII.
 XIV. 
XIV.
 XV. 
XV.
 XVI. 
XVI.
 XVII. 
XVII. TO A SCEPTIC.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. A CHURCHYARD.—1.
 XIX. 
XIX. A CHURCHYARD.—2.
 XX. 
XX. TO------.
 XXI. 
XXI. FAME.
 XXII. 
XXII. TO A JUST LAWYER (EDWARD O'BRIEN).
 XXIII. 
XXIII.
 XXIV. 
XXIV.
 XXV. 
XXV. THE CHRISTIAN FAMILY.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. THE SPIRITUAL TIES REHEARSED IN THE NATURAL.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. ‘THE FLESH IS WEAK.’
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. THE DYING PLATONIST.
 XXIX. 
XXIX. RELIGIOUS LITERATURE.
 XXX. 
XXX. RELIGIOUS ANTIQUARIANISM.
 XXXI. 
XXXI. STORM AND STABILITY.
 XXXII. 
XXXII. THE BEATIFIC VISION OF THE EARTH.—1.
 XXXIII. 
XXXIII. THE BEATIFIC VISION OF THE EARTH.—2.
 XXXIV. 
XXXIV. THE BEATIFIC VISION OF THE EARTH.—3.
 XXXV. 
XXXV. THE CONSTELLATION OF THE PLOUGH.
 XXXVI. 
XXXVI. HUMAN LIFE.
 XXXVII. 
XXXVII. FORTITUDE.
 XXXVIII. 
XXXVIII. MEDITATION.
 XXXIX. 
XXXIX. SORROW.
 XL. 
XL. EVANESCENCE OF THE PATRIARCHAL RELIGION.
 XLI. 
XLI. VIGILANCE.
 XLII. 
XLII. PROVIDENCE.
 XLIII. 
XLIII. UNIVERSAL HISTORY.
 XLIV. 
XLIV. TRUTH.
 XLV. 
XLV. NATIONAL STRENGTH.
 XLVI. 
XLVI. HONOUR.
  
THE FALL OF RORA.
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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SONNETS.
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THE YEAR OF SORROW AND OTHER POEMS.
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SONNETS WRITTEN IN TRAVEL.
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[section]
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MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.
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VOL. II.
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VOL. III.
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VOL. IV.
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VOL. V.
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VOL. VI. LEGENDS AND RECORDS OF THE CHURCH AND THE EMPIRE

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147

XXVIII. THE DYING PLATONIST.

Fain would I call that night which spreads so fast
Out of the vault of Death's abysmal skies,
A gentle gloom like that of thy dark eyes:
Fain would I say that we, like children, cast
Our blind-fold faces with a timid haste
Into a mother's lap—ere long to rise
Some little forfeit and some sweet surprise
The playful future of a playful past.
But ah! it is not so. Reality
Makes a dread language of this ebbing breath;
Preaching those awful homilies of Death
Which sound so like each other at their close.
The least of Sins is Infinite: it throws
A shade into the face of the Most High.
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