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Where the grasshopper doth sing
Merrily-one joyous thing
In a world of sorrowing!


There our tent shall be the willow,
And mine arm shall be thy pillow;
Sounds and odours, sorrowful
Because they once were sweet, shall lull
Us to slumber deep and dull.

Hal thy frozen pulses flutter
With a love thou dar'st not utter.
Thou art murmuring-thou art weeping-
Is thine icy bosom leaping
While my burning heart lies sleeping ?

Kiss me ;-oh! thy lips are cold;


neck thine arms enfoldThey are soft, but chill and dead; And thy tears upon my

head Burn like points of frozen lead.

Hasten to the bridal bed ;
Underneath the grave 'tis spread :
In darkness may our love be hid,
Oblivion be our coverlid;
We may rest, and none forbid.

Clasp me, till our hearts be grown
Like two shadows into one;

Till this dreadful transport may
Like a vapour


away In the sleep that lasts alway.

We may dream in that long sleep,
That we are not those who weep;
Even as Pleasure dreams of thee,
Life-deserting Misery,
Thou mayest dream of her with me.

Let us laugh, and make our mirth,
At the shadows of the earth,
As dogs bay the moonlight clouds,
Which, like spectres wrapt in shrouds,
Pass o'er night in multitudes.

All the wide world, beside us
Show like multitudinous
Puppets passing from a scene;
What but mockery can they mean,
Where I am

where thou hast been?


O Mary dear, that you were here

your brown eyes bright and clean And your sweet voice, like a bird Singing love to its lone mate

* * * sky

In the ivy bower disconsolate ;
Voice the sweetest ever heard !

brow more
Than the
Of this azure Italy.
Mary dear, come to me soon,
I am not well whilst thou art far;
As sunset to the sphered moon,
As twilight to the western star,
Thou, beloved, art to me.

you were here!

O Mary dear, that
The Castle echo whispers

66 Here!”
Este, September, 1818.



LISTEN, listen, Mary mine,
To the whisper of the Apennine ;
It bursts on the roof like the thunder's roar,
Or like the sea on a northern shore,
Heard in its raging ebb and flow
By the captives pent in the cave below.
The Apennine in the light of day
Is a mighty mountain dim and gray,
Which between the earth and sky doth lay ;
But when night comes, a chaos dread
On the dim starlight then is spread,
And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm.

May 4th, 1818.


THE colour from the flower is gone,

Which like thy sweet eyes smiled on me; The odour from the flower is flown,

Which breathed of thee and only thee !

A withered, lifeless, vacant form,

It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm

With cold and silent rest.

weep—my tears revive it not ;

I sigh—it breathes no more on me;
Its mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should be.



The sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear

The purple noon's transparent might: The breath of the moist earth is light,

Around its unexpanded buds; Like many a voice of one delight,

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor

green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion, How sweet ! did any heart now share in my


Alas ! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth

in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround;

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care

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