LA PENSIEROSA by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

It is not envy, it is fear
Impels me, while I write, to say
When Poesy invites, forbear
Sometimes to walk her tempting way;
Readier is she to swell the tear
Than its sharp tinglings to allay.

To our first loves we oft return
When years, that smooth our path, are past,
And wish again the incense-urn
Its flickering flame once more to cast
On paler brows, until the bourn
Is reacht where we may rest at last.

Are there no stories fit for song
And fit for maiden lips to sing?
To you, O Rose, they all belong,
About your knee they fondly cling,
They love the accents of your tongue,
They seek the shadow of your wing.

Ah! let the Hours be blythe and free,
With Hope for ever at their side,
And let the Muses chaunt a glee
Of pleasures that await the bride,
Of sunny life's untroubled sea,
Smooth sands and gently-swelling tide.

A time will come when steps are slow
And apt on ancient scenes to rest,
When life hath lost its former glow
And, one by one, your shrinking breast
Hath dropt the flowers refreshing so
That mansion of the truly blest.

Then, nor till then, in spring go forth
The graves of waiting friends to see:
It would be pleasant to my earth
To know your step, if that might be:
A bayleaf is above my worth,
A daisy is enough for me.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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