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 sighs
I consecrate to thee.
About the poet |
Walter Savage Landor |
By the same poet |
The Maid's Lament |
Ianthe |
Twenty Years hence |
Verse |
Proud Word you never spoke |
Resignation |
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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