I can't tell you -- but you feel it --Nor can you tell me --Saints, with ravished slate and pencilSolve our April Day!
I met a King this afternoon!He had not on a Crown indeed,A little Palmleaf Hat was all,And he was barefoot, I'm afraid!
A sepal, petal, and a thornUpon a common summer's morn --A flask of Dew -- A Bee or two --A Breeze -- a caper in the trees --And I'm a Rose!
"Sic transit gloria mundi,""How doth the busy bee,""Dum vivimus vivamus,"I stay mine enemy!
What a misfortune, although you are madefor fine and great worksthis unjust fate of yours alwaysdenies you encouragement and success;
The petals fall in the fountain, the orange-coloured rose-leaves, Their ochre clings to the stone.
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;Petals on a wet, black bough.
When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns.(Acts xxviii, 15)Herodion, Apelles, Amplias,And Andronicus? Is it you I seeAt last? And is it you now that are gazing
IPartly to think, more to be left alone, George Annandale said something to his friends A word or two, brusque, but yet smoothed enough To suit their funeral gazeand went upstairs;
Birds circle the Ticino. In winterThe Var was dark blue, unfrozen. TheThwaite, cold, is choked with sandy ice;The Ardèche glistens feebly through the freezing rain.
Something strange is creeping across me.La Celestina has only to warble the first few barsOf "I Thought about You" or something mellow fromAmadigi di Gaula for everything--a mint-condition can
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