Years
Years, many parti-colour’d years,
Some have crept on, and some have flown
Since first before me fell those tears
I never could see fall alone.
Years, not so many, are to come,
Years not so varied, when from you
One more will fall: when, carried home,
I see it not, nor hear Adieu.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Mild is the Parting Year
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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The Appeal
REMAIN, ah not in youth alone,
Though youth, where you are, long will stay,
But when my summer days are gone,
And my autumnal haste away.
“Can I be always by your side?”
No; but the hours you can, you must,
Nor rise at Death’s approaching stride,
Nor go when dust is gone to dust.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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The Test
I held her hand, the pledge of bliss,
Her hand that trembled and withdrew;
She bent her head before my kiss...
My heart was sure that hers was true.
Now I have told her I must part,
She shakes my hand, she bids adieu,
Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart!
Hers never was the heart for you.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Separation
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.
Between us now the mountain and the wood
Seem standing darker than last year they stood,
And say we must not cross--alas! alas!
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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I Entreat You, Alfred Tennyson
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
Come and share my haunch of venison.
I have too a bin of claret,
Good, but better when you share it.
Tho' 'tis only a small bin,
There's a stock of it within.
And as sure as I'm a rhymer,
Half a butt of Rudeheimer.
Come; among the sons of men is one
Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson?
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Very True, the Linnets Sing
Very true, the linnets sing
Sweetest in the leaves of spring:
You have found in all these leaves
That which changes and deceives,
And, to pine by sun or star,
Left them, false ones as they are.
But there be who walk beside
Autumn's, till they all have died,
And who lend a patient ear
To low notes from branches sere.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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To a Cyclamen
I COME to visit thee agen,
My little flowerless cyclamen;
To touch the hand, almost to press,
That cheer’d thee in thy loneliness.
What could thy careful guardian find
Of thee in form, of me in mind,
What is there in us rich or rare,
To make us claim a moment’s care?
Unworthy to be so carest,
We are but withering leaves at best.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel
MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
O, if you felt the pain I feel!
But O, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true--
All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Along This Coast I Led The Vacant Hours
Along this coast I led the vacant Hours
To the lone sunshine on the uneven strand,
And nipt the stubborn grass and juicier flowers
With one unconscious inobservant hand,
While crept the other by degrees more near
Until it rose the cherisht form around,
And prest it closer, only that the ear
Might lean, and deeper drink some half-heard
sound.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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