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O! my Love, my Love is young!
sweet shepherd, hie thee,
HAT time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by: -This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
William Shakespeare 150
FOR my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
HEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought
things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste; Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-canceled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before: -But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
INCE brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack!
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT
MET a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold com mand
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Spoil: destruction
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
d The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; C
And on the pedestal these words appear: “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
'EAR no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
Fear no more the lightning-flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Slcep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Days of danger, nights of waking.
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Mustering clan or squadron tramping.
At the daybreak from the fallow,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.