Poems by Walter Savage Landor

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Into the woods my Master went,
Damon was sitting in the grove
Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak
Blythe bell, that calls to bridal halls,
HERE, ever since you went abroad,
The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by,
To write as your sweet mother does
Death, tho' I see him not, is near
Ah what avails the sceptred race,
An ancient chestnut’s blossoms threw
We are what suns and winds and waters make us;
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
Child of a day, thou knowest not
Tanagra! think not I forget
With rosy hand a little girl press’d down
Few will acknowledge what they owe
Death stands above me, whispering low
Death stands above me, whispering low
Death stands above me, whispering low
Catch her and hold her if you can,
Stand close around, ye Stygian set,
"Do you remember me? or are you proud?"
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
I Leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more
Here, where precipitate Spring, with one light bound
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Lo! where the four mimosas blend their shade
Friends, whom she look’d at blandly from her couch
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
First Book.
God scatters beauty as he scatters flowers
There is a flower I wish to wear,
Here, ever since you went abroad,
To turn my volumes o’er nor find
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea!
‘Do you remember me? or are you proud?’
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
They say that every idle word
No, my own love of other years!
In spring and summer winds may blow,
The leaves are falling; so am I;
Lately our poets loiter'd in green lanes,
Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower,
Father! the little girl we see
The dreamy rhymer’s measur’d snore
In his own image the Creator made,
The mother of the Muses, we are taught,
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
In Clementina’s artless mien
Struggling, and faint, and fainter didst thou wane,
Tell me not what too well I know
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
To my ninth decade I have tottered on,
I strove with none; for none was worth my strife,
Is it not better at an early hour
Borgia, thou once wert almost too august
Many love music but for music’s sake;
Borgia, thou once wert almost too august
Over his millions Death has lawful power,
Once, and once only, have I seen thy face,
One lovely name adorns my song,
Who will away to Athens with me? who
Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives,
My hopes retire; my wishes as before
Alas, how soon the hours are over
Pleasure! why thus desert the heart
Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak
"Wrong is but falsehood put in practice."
"There is no easy path leading out of life, and few easy ones that lie within it."
"No ashes are lighter than those of incense, and few things burn out sooner."
"Ambition is but avarice on stilts, and masked."
"We think that we suffer from ingratitude, while in reality we suffer from self-love."
"My thoughts are my company; I can bring them together, select them, detain them, dismiss them."
Remain, ah not in youth alone!
Ah what avails the sceptred race,
Beautiful spoils! borne off from vanquish’d death!
There is a mountain and a wood between us,
The tongue of England, that which myriads
She I love (alas in vain!)
Soon, O Ianthe! life is o'er,
Tell me not things past all belief;
Ternissa! you are fled!
Remain, ah not in youth alone,
The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings
“Artemidora! Gods invisible,
Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throes
The fault is not mine if I love you too much,
The gates of fame and of the grave
Rhaicos was born amid the hills wherefrom
Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far,
I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,
The wisest of the wise
One day, when I was young, I read
I held her hand, the pledge of bliss,
When the buds began to burst,
There falls with every wedding chime
Yes; I write verses now and then,
I come to visit thee agen,
Welcome, old friend! These many years
Barry! your spirit long ago
Go then to Italy; but mind
You smil’d, you spoke, and I believ’d,
There is delight in singing, tho' none hear
Come, Sleep! but mind ye! if you come without
Avon! why runnest thou away so fast?
Those who have laid the harp aside
Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?
Against the groaning mast I stand,
Twenty years hence my eyes may grow
Various the roads of life; in one
Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives,
How many verses have I thrown
Very true, the linnets sing
Well I remember how you smiled
Well I remember how you smiled
Here, ever since you went abroad,
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
Why, why repine, my pensive friend,
With rosy hand a little girl prest down
When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face
Years, many parti-colour’d years,
Yes; I write verses now and then,
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,

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