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 |
|
| 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 |
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