Sonnet. SAD is our youth, for it is ever going, In current unperceived, because so fleet; Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us A nearer good to cure an older ill; And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them! AUBREY DE VERE. The Soul's Wefiance. I SAID to sorrow's awful storm, That beat against my breast, Rage on!-thou may'st destroy this form, And lay it low at rest; But still the spirit that now brooks Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks, With steadfast eye. I said to penury's meagre train, Shall mock your force the while, Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day, Whilst yet the calm hours creep, PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Stanzas. My life is like the summer rose Is scattered on the ground-to die! My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail-its date is brief, Restless and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless treeBut none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints which feet All trace will vanish from the sand; On that lone shore loud moans the sea- No More. My wind has turned to bitter north, That was so soft a south before; My sky, that shone so sunny bright, With foggy gloom is clouded o'er; My gay green leaves are yellow-black Upon the dank autumnal floor; For love, departed once, comes back No more again, no more. |