My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night,[3] As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,...
Once more in Man's frail world! which I had left So long that 'twas forgotten; and I feel The weight of clay again, - too soon bereft Of the Immortal Vision which could heal...
These locks, which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine, Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense, love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it;...
Ye Cupids droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Which dearer than her eyes she lov'd: For he was gentle and so true,...