WHY, why repine, my pensive friend,
At pleasures slipp'd away?
Some the stern Fates will never lend,
And all refuse to stay.
I see the rainbow in the sky,
The dew upon the grass;
I see them, and I ask not why
They glimmer or they pass.
With folded arms I linger not
To call them back; 'twere vain:
In this, or in some other spot,
I know they'll shine again.
About the poet |
Walter Savage Landor |
By the same poet |
The Maid's Lament |
Rose Aylmer |
Ianthe |
Twenty Years hence |
Verse |
Proud Word you never spoke |
Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel |
Autumn |
Remain! |
Absence |
Of Clementina |
Ianthe's Question |
On Catullus |
Dirce |
Alciphron and Leucippe |
Years |
Separation |
Late Leaves |
Finis |
Related books |
Walter Savage Landor at amazon.co.uk |