Idyls and Songs by Francis Turner Palgrave: 1848-1854 |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
XII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
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. | LVII.
SONG.
|
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 | ||
134
LVII. SONG.
FROM THE ‘NEW PENTAMERON.’
And is her smile as fair, as when
Its light to Love first call'd me:—
Her blush as fleet, her voice as sweet,
As when it first enthrall'd me?
The lustrous wave of locks undimm'd,
The eye as bright and tearless:—
The step as sure, the heart as pure,
The soul as frank and fearless?
Its light to Love first call'd me:—
Her blush as fleet, her voice as sweet,
As when it first enthrall'd me?
The lustrous wave of locks undimm'd,
The eye as bright and tearless:—
The step as sure, the heart as pure,
The soul as frank and fearless?
I know she little thinks of me,
Or heeds my deep despairing:—
Yet is she not by Love forgot,
Uncared for, as uncaring.
But is she still the heav'n she was
For which my fancy panted—
Or has Time's spell work'd all too well,
And left her disenchanted?
Or heeds my deep despairing:—
Yet is she not by Love forgot,
Uncared for, as uncaring.
But is she still the heav'n she was
For which my fancy panted—
Or has Time's spell work'd all too well,
And left her disenchanted?
—Ah, how can Spring be aught but Spring,
Though mine the wint'ry weather?
How can it be the charm should flee,
Or Love from Beauty sever?
I doubt not that her eye is bright,
Although its glance disdains me:—
No more her voice bids grief rejoice:
Her image yet enchains me.
Though mine the wint'ry weather?
How can it be the charm should flee,
Or Love from Beauty sever?
I doubt not that her eye is bright,
Although its glance disdains me:—
No more her voice bids grief rejoice:
Her image yet enchains me.
Idyls and Songs | ||