Spirits of the Dead Thy soul shall find itself alone,Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone —Not one, of all the crowd to pryInto thine hour of secrecy —Be silent...
To My Mother Because I feel that, in the heavens above,The angels, whispering to one another,Can find, among their burning terms of love,None so devotional as that of ‘mother’ —Therefore...
To Marie Louise Not long ago, the writer of these lines,In the mad pride of intellectuality,Maintained the “Power of Words” — denied that everA thought arose within the human brainBeyond...
To Mary Mary, amid the cares — the woesCrowding around my earthly path,(Sad path, alas! where growsNot ev’n one lonely rose,)My soul at least a solace hathIn dreams of thee...
To Margaret Who hath seduced thee to this foul revolt } Milton Par. Lost. Bk. IFrom the pure well of Beauty undefiled? } SomebodySo banished from true wisdom to prefer...
To M. L. S. Of all who hail thy presence as the morning —Of all to whom thy absence is the night —The blotting utterly from out high heavenThe sacred...
To Her Whose Name is Written Below For her these lines are penned, whose luminous eyes,Bright and expressive as the stars of Leda,Shall find her own sweet name that, nestling...
To Helen I saw thee once — once only — years ago:I must not say how many — but not many.It was a July midnight; and from outA full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul...
Lines Written in an Album Eliza! — let thy generous heartFrom its present pathway part not!Being every thing which now thou art,Be nothing which thou art not.So with the world...
