Walter Savage Landor

Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came,

Damon was sitting in the grove With Phyllis, and protesting love; And she was listening; but no word

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek,

Blythe bell, that calls to bridal halls, Tolls deep a darker day; The very shower that feeds the flower

HERE, ever since you went abroad, If there be change no change I see: I only walk our wonted road,

The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by, Of measured pace tho' varying mien all twelve, Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'd

To write as your sweet mother does Is all you wish to do. Play, sing, and smile for others, Rose!

Death, tho' I see him not, is near And grudges me my eightieth year. Now, I would give him all these last

Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace!

An ancient chestnut's blossoms threw Their heavy odour over two: Leucippe, it is said, was one;

We are what suns and winds and waters make us; The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills Fashion and win their nursling with their smiles.

Mild is the parting year, and sweet The odour of the falling spray; Life passes on more rudely fleet,

Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thy urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot,

Tanagra! think not I forget Thy beautifully-storeyd streets; Be sure my memory bathes yet

With rosy hand a little girl press'd down A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill: Often as they sprang up again, a frown

Few will acknowledge what they owe To persecuted, brave Defoe. Achilles, in Homeric song,

Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear: Of his strange language all I know

Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear: Of his strange language all I know

Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear: Of his strange language all I know

Catch her and hold her if you can, See, she defies you with her fan, Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread

Stand close around, ye Stygian set, With Dirce in one boat conveyed, Or Charon, seeing, may forget

"Do you remember me? or are you proud?" Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and lookt into my eyes,

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife: Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art: I warm'd both hands before the fire of Life;

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires; And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,

I Leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more From the high terraces, at even-tide, To look supine into thy depths of sky,

Here, where precipitate Spring, with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms, expires, And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;

Lo! where the four mimosas blend their shade In calm repose at last is Landor laid; For ere he slept he saw them planted here

Friends, whom she look'd at blandly from her couch And her white wrist above it, gem-bedew'd, Were arguing with Pentheusa: she had heard

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires; And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,

First Book. I sing the fates of Gebir.    He had dwelt Among those mountain-caverns which retain

"You must give back," her mother said, To a poor sobbing little maid, "All the young man has given you,

God scatters beauty as he scatters flowers O'er the wide earth, and tells us all are ours. A hundred lights in every temple burn,

There is a flower I wish to wear, But not until first worn by you, Heartsease of all earth's flowers most rare;

Here, ever since you went abroad, If there be change, no change I see, I only walk our wonted road,

To turn my volumes o'er nor find (Sweet unsuspicious friend!) Some vestige of an erring mind

I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson, Come and share my haunch of venison. I have too a bin of claret,

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;

From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass Like little ripples down a sunny river; Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,

Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea! A path forbidden me! Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds

'Do you remember me? or are you proud?' Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and look'd into my eyes.

Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, Cut down and up again as blithe as ever; From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass

They say that every idle word Is numbered by the Omniscient Lord. O Parliament! 'tis well that He

No, my own love of other years! No, it must never be. Much rests with you that yet endears,

In spring and summer winds may blow, And rains fall after, hard and fast; The tender leaves, if beaten low,

The leaves are falling; so am I; The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; So have I too.

Lately our poets loiter'd in green lanes, Content to catch the ballads of the plains; I fancied I had strength enough to climb

Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower, Some in the chill, some in the warmer hour: Alike they flourish and alike they fall,

Father! the little girl we see Is not, I fancy, so like me; You never hold her on your knee.

The dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore Falls heavy on our ears no more; And by long strides are left behind

In his own image the Creator made, His own pure sunbeam quicken'd thee, O man! Thou breathing dial! since thy day began

The mother of the Muses, we are taught, Is Memory: she has left me; they remain, And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing

Mild is the parting year, and sweet The odour of the falling spray; Life passes on more rudely fleet,

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!

In Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen

Struggling, and faint, and fainter didst thou wane, O Moon! and round thee all thy starry train Came forth to help thee, with half-open eyes,

Tell me not what too well I know About the bard of Sirmio. Yes, in Thalia's son

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art; I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;

To my ninth decade I have tottered on, And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady; She, who once led me where she would, is gone,

I strove with none; for none was worth my strife, Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life,

Is it not better at an early hour In its calm cell to rest the weary head, While birds are singing and while blooms the bower,

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou 'rt dust; All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,

Many love music but for music's sake; Many because her touches can awake Thoughts that repose within the breast half dead,

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust. All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,

Over his millions Death has lawful power, But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none. After a longer struggle, in a fight

Once, and once only, have I seen thy face, Elia! once only has thy tripping tongue Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left

One lovely name adorns my song, And, dwelling in the heart, Forever falters at the tongue,

Who will away to Athens with me? who Loves choral songs and maidens crown'd with flowers, Unenvious? mount the pinnace; hoist the sail.

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives

My hopes retire; my wishes as before Struggle to find their resting-place in vain: The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore;

Alas, how soon the hours are over Counted us out to play the lover! And how much narrower is the stage

Pleasure! why thus desert the heart In its spring-tide? I could have seen her, I could part,

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek,

"Wrong is but falsehood put in practice." "The Siren waits thee, singing song for song." "Music is God's gift to man, the only art of Heaven given to earth, the only art of earth we take to Heaven."

"There is no easy path leading out of life, and few easy ones that lie within it." "The flame of anger, bright and brief, sharpens the barb of love." "Delay in justice is injustice."

"No ashes are lighter than those of incense, and few things burn out sooner." "There is delight in singing, though none hear beside the singer." "Many laws as certainly make bad men, as bad men make many laws."

"Ambition is but avarice on stilts, and masked." "Great men lose somewhat of their greatness by being near us; ordinary men gain much." "People, like nails, lose their effectiveness when they lose direction and begin to bend."

"We think that we suffer from ingratitude, while in reality we suffer from self-love." "The writing of the wise are the only riches our posterity cannot squander." "We are no longer happy so soon as we wish to be happier."

"My thoughts are my company; I can bring them together, select them, detain them, dismiss them." "The wise become as the unwise in the enchanted chambers of Power, whose lamps make every face the same colour." "We often fancy that we suffer from ingratitude, while in reality we suffer from self-love."

Remain, ah not in youth alone! Tho' youth, where you are, long will stay, But when my summer days are gone,

Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace!

Beautiful spoils! borne off from vanquish'd death! Upon my heart's high altar shall ye lie, Mov'd but by only one adorer's breath,

There is a mountain and a wood between us, Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen us Morning and noon and eventide repass.

The tongue of England, that which myriads Have spoken and will speak, were paralyz'd Hereafter, but two mighty men stand forth

She I love (alas in vain!) Floats before my slumbering eyes: When she comes she lulls my pain,

Soon, O Ianthe! life is o'er, And sooner beauty's heavenly smile: Grant only (and I ask no more),

Tell me not things past all belief; One truth in you I prove; The flame of anger, bright and brief,

Ternissa! you are fled! I say not to the dead, But to the happy ones who rest below:

Remain, ah not in youth alone, Though youth, where you are, long will stay, But when my summer days are gone,

The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings To crown the feast where swells the broad-vein'd brow, Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings,

'Artemidora! Gods invisible, While thou art lying faint along the couch, Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet,

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream; I wish no happier one than to be laid Beneath a cool syringa's scented shade,

Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throes Of anger long burst forth; Inconstantly the south-wind blows,

The fault is not mine if I love you too much, I loved you too little too long, Such ever your graces, your tenderness such,

Rhaicos was born amid the hills wherefrom Gnidos the light of Caria is discern'd And small are the white-crested that play near,

Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far, It seems that there are worlds between us; Shine here again, thou wandering star!

I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,

The wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies And love to hear them told;

One day, when I was young, I read About a poet, long since dead, Who fell asleep, as poets do

I held her hand, the pledge of bliss, Her hand that trembled and withdrew; She bent her head before my kiss...

When the buds began to burst, Long ago, with Rose the First I was walking; joyous then

The gates of fame and of the grave Stand under the same architrave.

There falls with every wedding chime A feather from the wing of Time. You pick it up, and say 'How fair

Yes; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talk'd of by young men

I come to visit thee agen, My little flowerless cyclamen; To touch the hand, almost to press,

Welcome, old friend! These many years Have we lived door by door; The fates have laid aside their shears

Barry! your spirit long ago Has haunted me; at last I know The heart it sprung from: one more sound

Go then to Italy; but mind To leave the pale low France behind; Pass through that country, nor ascend

You smil'd, you spoke, and I believ'd, By every word and smile deceiv'd. Another man would hope no more;

There is delight in singing, tho' none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone

Come, Sleep! but mind ye! if you come without The little girl that struck me at the rout, By Jove! I would not give you half-a-crown

Avon! why runnest thou away so fast? Rest thee before that Chancel where repose The bones of him whose spirit moves the world.

Those who have laid the harp aside And turn'd to idler things, From very restlessness have tried

Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth? With wing at either shoulder, And smile that never left thy mouth

Against the groaning mast I stand, The Atlantic surges swell, To bear me from my native land

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow If not quite dim, yet rather so, Still yours from others they shall know

Various the roads of life; in one All terminate, one lonely way We go; and 'Is he gone?'

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives

How many verses have I thrown Into the fire because the one Peculiar word, the wanted most,

Very true, the linnets sing Sweetest in the leaves of spring: You have found in all these leaves

Well I remember how you smiled To see me write your name upon The soft sea-sand... "O! what a child!

Well I remember how you smiled To see me write your name upon The soft sea-sand--'_O! what a child!_

Here, ever since you went abroad, If there be change, no change I see, I only walk our wonted road,

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!

Why, why repine, my pensive friend, At pleasures slipp'd away? Some the stern Fates will never lend,

With rosy hand a little girl prest down A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill: Often as they sprang up again, a frown

When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face ('T was when some fifty long had settled there And intermarried and branch'd off awide)

Years, many parti-colour'd years, Some have crept on, and some have flown Since first before me fell those tears

Yes; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talkt of by young men

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed, By every word and smile deceived. Another man would hope no more;