Collected Poems

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K. Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1898 - 526 psl.
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464 psl. - OVE comes back to his vacant dwelling, — .*— ' The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! We see him stand by the open door, With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. He makes as though in our arms repelling, He fain would lie as he lay before ; — Love comes back to his vacant dwelling...
521 psl. - To obviate all the reflections which have gone round the world to Johnson's prejudice, by applying to him the epithet of a bear, let me impress upon my readers a just and happy saying of my friend Goldsmith, who knew him well: " Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in his manner ; but no man alive has a more tender heart. He has nothing of the bear but his skin...
488 psl. - CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, ^-' Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou ! Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew, — This was the Pompadour's fan ! See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the...
488 psl. - Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began ; Here was the sign and the cue, — This was the Pompadour's fan!
521 psl. - There is no arguing with Johnson ; for when his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt end of it.
469 psl. - WITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan Of old made music sweet for man ; And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, — The rolling river slowlier ran. Ah ! would, — ah ! would, a little span, Some air of Arcady could fan This age of ours, too seldom stirred With pipe and flute...
97 psl. - read " three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming ; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming, Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book, — a maze Of muslin mixed with roses. " You're reading Greek?" " I am — and you?" " O, mine's a mere romancer ! "
498 psl. - ALFRED DE MUSSET. TF they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played •*- Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed " From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore ; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew...
472 psl. - WITH slower pen men used to write, Of old, when " letters " were " polite ; In ANNA'S, or in GEORGE'S days, They could afford to turn a phrase, Or trim a straggling theme aright. They knew not steam ; electric light Not yet had dazed their calmer sight ; — They meted out both blame and praise With slower pen. Too swiftly now the Hours take flight ! What's read at morn is dead at night : Scant space have we for Art's delays, Whose breathless thought so briefly stays, We may not work — ah ! would...
95 psl. - ... FRANK. If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would, at least, pretend I recollected, If I were you ! NELLIE. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish If I were you ! FRANK. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best,— the mildest "honey-dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you ! NELLIE.

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