54 quotes
For my spirit hath left her earthly home
And found a nobler dwelling,
Where the music of light is that of life,
And the starry harps are swelling.
The Golden Violet (1827)
Beautiful weakness! oh, if weak,
That woman's heart should tinge her cheek!
'Tis sad to change it for the strength
That heart and cheek must know at length.
The Golden Violet (1827)
Oh, glory of the morning!
Oh, ye gifted, young, and brave!
What end have ye, but midnight;
What find ye but the grave ?
The Golden Violet (1827)
Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell
When foes meet hand to hand,—
The shout, the yell, the iron clang
Of meeting spear and brand.
The Golden Violet (1827)
Down she bent
Her head upon an arm so white that tears
Seem'd but the natural melting of its snow,
Touch'd by the flush'd cheek's crimson.
The Golden Violet (1827)
Such as the lute, touch'd by no hand
Save by an angel's, wakes and weeps,
Such is the sound that now to land
From the charmed water sweeps.
The Golden Violet (1827)
Maiden, fling from thy braided hair
The red rosebud that is wreathed there ;
For he who planted the parent tree
Is now what soon that blossom will be.
The Golden Violet (1827)
I cannot choose but marvel at the way
In which our lives pass on, from day to day
Learning strange lessons in the human heart,
And yet like shadows letting them depart.
The Golden Violet (1827)
There stood she, even as a statue stands,
With head droop'd downward, and with clasped hands;
Such small white hands that match'd her ivory feet,
How may they bear that scorching fire to meet?
The Golden Violet (1827)
For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all
In which it has no part, or one of gall
The Golden Violet (1827)
Oh! frail are the many links that are
In the chain of affection's tender care
The Golden Violet (1827)
Teach it me, if you can,—forgetfulness!
I surely shall forget, if you can bid me
The Golden Violet (1827)
I numbered years of pain and distress,
And but fourteen days of happiness.
Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power,
Are more than the toys of a passing hour
The Golden Violet (1827)
Oh, what am I, and what are they ?
Masquers but striving to deceive
Themselves and others ; and believe
It is enough, if none shall know
The covered mass of care below.
The Golden Violet (1827)
When will my soul forget the look
With which one single stem she took
From out the wreath ?—a tulip flower;
But, touch'd as by some withering power,
The painted leaves were drooping round
The rich but burning heart they bound.
The Golden Violet (1827)
And here at length is somewhat of revenge:
For man's most golden dreams of pride and power
Are vain as any woman-dreams of love;
Both end in weary brow and wither'd heart,
And the grave closes over those whose hopes
Have lain there long before.
The Golden Violet (1827)
And had he not long read
Her heart's hush'd secret in the soft dark eye
Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek
Colouring all crimson at his lightest look?
The Golden Violet (1827)
But not like this is Nature's face,
Though even she must bear the trace
Of the great curse that clings to all ;
Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall
The Golden Violet (1827)
We do too little feel each others' pain;
We do relax too much the social chain
That binds us to each other; slight the care
There is for grief in which we have no share.
The Golden Violet (1827)
TO-MORROW, to-morrow, thou loveliest May,
To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day;
Bride of the summer, child of the spring,
To-morrow the year will its favourite bring
The Golden Violet (1827)