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O! my Love, my Love is young!
O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long.
HAT time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
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.
FOR my sake do you with Fortune chide,
That did not better for my life provide
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
HEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought
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 heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
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.
LIKE as the waves make towards the
IKE as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
Each changing place with that which goes before,
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. Expense: loss
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
INCE brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
O! none, unless this miracle have might,
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 command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Percy Bysshe Shelley
EAR no more the heat o' the sun
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Care no more to clothe and eat;
Fear no more the lightning-flash
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Mustering clan or squadron tramping.
At the daybreak from the fallow,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Dream not, with the rising sun,