Poems | ||
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Were mine the songs Anacreon sung,
Were mine Catullus' burning pen,
Or Dante's dreams, or Petrarch's tongue,
How, dearest, would I sing thee then!
Nor Lesbia's lips, nor Laura's eyes,
Nor Beatrice's gaze divine,
Not one sweet charm the world should prize
More than it prized those charms of thine.
Were mine Catullus' burning pen,
Or Dante's dreams, or Petrarch's tongue,
How, dearest, would I sing thee then!
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Nor Beatrice's gaze divine,
Not one sweet charm the world should prize
More than it prized those charms of thine.
Oh, love, for Goethe's matchless grace!
Oh, love, for Byron's words of flame!
Then thine by Lili's fame I'd place,
With Athens' maid's should live thy name.
Oh could I sing such songs as sprung
From Burns's heart—Béranger's brain,
With Jean and Liz shouldst thou be sung,
While songs upon men's lips remain.
Oh, love, for Byron's words of flame!
Then thine by Lili's fame I'd place,
With Athens' maid's should live thy name.
Oh could I sing such songs as sprung
From Burns's heart—Béranger's brain,
With Jean and Liz shouldst thou be sung,
While songs upon men's lips remain.
How weak am I thy charms to paint!
How poor the colours words supply!
Even as I use them, wan and faint,
I see thy beauty from them die.
Love laughs, and mocks, and shrills: “Why try
“To paint the charms thy words but blur?
“Thou hast herself; in vain, ah! why
“Waste time to win a dream of her!”
How poor the colours words supply!
Even as I use them, wan and faint,
I see thy beauty from them die.
Love laughs, and mocks, and shrills: “Why try
“To paint the charms thy words but blur?
“Thou hast herself; in vain, ah! why
“Waste time to win a dream of her!”
Poems | ||