Others

Let these describe the undescribable.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.

Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.

With just enough of learning to misquote.

A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure—critics all are ready-made.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print; A book’s a book, although there’s nothing in ’t.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away, Thou would’st still be ador’d as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled.

Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks.

With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots, Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots.

With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots, Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots.

Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud— We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light.

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the earth.

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

What is an epigram? A dwarfish whole, Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

In the hexameter rises the fountain’s silvery column; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honeydew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!

Her gentle limbs did she undress, And lay down in her loveliness.

No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart.

No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart.