When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know |
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? / Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, |
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden eyed despairs |
Where's the cheek that doth not fade, / Too much gazed at? |
Where's the face / One would meet in every place? / Where's the voice, however soft, / One would hear so very oft? |
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skiews, And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful c |
Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves? |
Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, / Why in the name of Glory were they proud? |
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory! |
You are always new, The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest. |
You might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore. |