The Poet’s Apology
No, the Muse has gone away,
Does not haunt me much to-day.
Everything she had to say
Has been said!
Is There Not A Land
(Anna Letitia Barbauld)
Oh, is there not a land
Between Pole and Pole
Where the war trumpet sounds not
To disturb the deep serene?
And can I go there
Without or wheel or sail,
Wafted by a gentle gale?
I Stood Tiptoe
I stood tiptoe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still.
Not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.
Time And Life
(Algernon Charles Swinburne)
All the world is wearied, east and west,
Tired with toil to watch the slow sun wheeling,
Twelve loud hours of life's laborious quest.
Eyes forspent with vigil, faint and reeling,
Find at last my comfort, and are blest,
Not with rapturous light of life's revealing—
Nay, but rest.
Hark! Music still is here!
Hark! music still is here! How wildly sweet,
Like flute notes in a storm, the psalm ascends.
It is the hour that pensive thought loves best:
The gloaming hour,
When dying light is loveliest loneliness,
When music’s voice is sweet as love’s caress.