GoofyLady's blog: "Poems"

So We'll Go No More A-roving by George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron (1788–1824) So, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath And the soul wears out the breast And a heart must pause to breathe And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving And the day returns too soon, Yet, we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

Reluctance by Robert Frost (1874 - 1963) Out through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended. The leaves are all dead on the ground, Save those that the oak is keeping To ravel them one by one And let them go scraping and creeping Out over the crusted snow, When others are sleeping. And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone; The flowers of the witch hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question "Whither?" Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

I Will Not Let Thee Go by Robert Bridges (1844 - 1930) I will not let thee go. Ends all our month-long love in this? Can it be summed up so, Quit in a single kiss? I will not let thee go. I will not let thee go. If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds, As the soft south can blow And toss the feathered seeds, Then might I let thee go. I will not let thee go. Had not the great sun seen, I might; Or were he reckoned slow To bring the false to light, Then might I let thee go... I will not let thee go. I hold thee by too many bands: Thou sayest farewell, and lo! I have thee by the hands, And will not let thee go.

I Loved a Lass, a Fair One by George Wither (1588-1667) I loved a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen: But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! Her hair like gold did glister, Each eye was like a star, She did surpass her sister, Which pass'd all others far; She would me 'honey' call, She'd--O she'd kiss me too! But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! In summer time to Medley My love and I would go; The boatmen there stood read'ly My love and me to row. For cream there would we call, For cakes and for prunes too; But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! Her cheeks were like the cherry, Her skin was white as snow; When she was blithe and merry She angel-like did show; Her waist exceeding small, The fives did fit her shoe: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! In summer time or winter She had her heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! To maidens' vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give; You may give them the hearing, But never them believe; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue: For mine, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo!

A Farewell by Coventry Patmore (1823 - 1896) With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposéd paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away. But, O my Best! When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazéd meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

Without Her by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828 - 1882) What of her glass without her? The blank grey There where the pool is blind of the moon’s face. Her dress without her? The tossed empty space Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away. Her paths without her? Day’s appointed sway Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place Without her? Tears, ah me! for love’s good grace, And cold forgetfulness of night or day. What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart, Of thee what word remains ere speech be still? A wayfarer by barren ways and chill, Steep ways and weary, without her thou art, Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart, Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.

The Banks Of Bonnie Doon by Robert Burns (1759–1796) Yon banks and hills of bonnie Doon, How can you bloom so fresh and fair? And little birds, how can you chaunt With me so weary... full o' care? You'll break my heart, you warbling birds That wanton thru the flow'ry thorns You remind me of departed joys Departed... never to return. Oft did I rove by bonnie Doon To see the rose and woodbine twine And every bird sang of its love As fondly once I sang of mine. With lightsome heart I pulled a rose Full sweet from off its thorny tree But my first lover stole that rose And, ah! has left its thorns with me.

Rose Aylmer by Walter Savage Landor (1775 - 1864) Ah, what avails the sceptred race; Ah, what the form divine. What every virtue, every grace, Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see; A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair by Stephen Foster (1826 - 1864) I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair, Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air; I see her tripping where the bright streams play, Happy as the daisies that dance on her way. Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour, Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er: Oh! I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair, Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air. I long for Jeanie with the daydawn smile, Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile; I hear her melodies, like joys gone by, Sighing round my heart o'er the fond hopes that die:- Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain,- Wailing for the lost one that comes not again: Oh! I long for Jeanie, and my heart bows low, Never more to find her where the bright waters flow. I sigh for Jeanie, but her light form strayed Far from the fond hearts round her native glade; Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown, Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone. Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore While her gentle fingers will cull them no more: Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair, Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

If Grief for Grief can Touch Thee by Emily Bronte (1818 - 1848) If grief for grief can touch thee, If answering woe for woe, If any truth can melt thee Come to me now! I cannot be more lonely, More drear I cannot be! My worn heart beats so wildly 'Twill break for thee-- And when the world despises-- When Heaven repels my prayer-- Will not mine angel comfort? Mine idol hear? Yes, by the tears I'm poured, By all my hours of pain O I shall surely win thee, Beloved, again!