Idyls and Songs by Francis Turner Palgrave: 1848-1854 |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
 | XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXII. |
 | Idyls and Songs |  |
‘I little thought, when first in youth I met thee,
Thou e'er wouldst be to me what now thou art:
That all the summon'd effort to forget thee
Could not efface thee from the heart of heart,
Since first I met thee.
Thou e'er wouldst be to me what now thou art:
That all the summon'd effort to forget thee
Could not efface thee from the heart of heart,
Since first I met thee.
‘O bitter draught of sweetest recollection
That with each thought of thee the soul must drain!
Lost Eden, wither'd by the world's infection;
Soul, yielded up to waste herself in vain,
Since first I met thee.
That with each thought of thee the soul must drain!
Lost Eden, wither'd by the world's infection;
Soul, yielded up to waste herself in vain,
Since first I met thee.
‘Thou art my second self:—where'er I wander,
Thy sad sweet presence with my journeying speeds;
And my fond heart has ever grown still fonder,
Tho' each new day, I know, new severance breeds
Since first I met thee.
Thy sad sweet presence with my journeying speeds;
And my fond heart has ever grown still fonder,
Tho' each new day, I know, new severance breeds
Since first I met thee.
‘Thy form was by me on the path-seam'd mountains;
Thy presence in the green leaves of the glen;
Thy name was whisper'd in the rustling fountains;
Thy voice in evening gales again, again,
Since first I met thee.
Thy presence in the green leaves of the glen;
Thy name was whisper'd in the rustling fountains;
Thy voice in evening gales again, again,
Since first I met thee.
‘Where should I turn me? where should I betake me?
One reckless hour has spoil'd the golden year;
The flowers and fruits of love at once forsake me;
All things are bitterest that were then most dear
When first I met thee.’
One reckless hour has spoil'd the golden year;
The flowers and fruits of love at once forsake me;
All things are bitterest that were then most dear
When first I met thee.’
| Idyls and Songs | |