Haughty glass, be not so vain,
So superb in thy disdain,
Deeming that she doth adore thee
Over all the world of men!
If the splendid sun were not,
Who would give the moon a thought?
And without her face before thee,
Where would be thy beauty then?

Well matched, well matched to mine—
the moon's teary face
lodging in the tears
on my sleeve
when I think of the one I love

Thine eyes have not the blue of heaven,
Thy mouth no redness of the rose,
No lily seems thy breast or arm.
Ah! what a wondrous spring were here,
If in the vales and on the heights
Such lilies and such roses bloomed!
And if a heaven surrounded all
As clear, as blue as are thine eyes!

Gayer than forest horn
As Fame's approaching trumpet sweetly blows
In young Ambition's ear; so when its breath
Pines to an echo, far from grievous Age,
(Like Revelry deserting ruined towers)
To our forsakenness as sad it seems
As to the dying wretch his burial knell
Rung ere its time; the sounds fleet with his soul.

I KISS you once for luck,
That you may feel no care.
I kiss you thrice for love
That you must spend and share.
Go now, and wheresoe'er
A heart shall take you in,
It is your very kin:
Make music there.

The fox's mask grins from the wall
In the dark shadows of the hall,
As though it said—
I kept them running till evenfall:
But now, of horses and hounds and all
That followed the hunt, the hunt I led,
Not even a mask is left on a wall.

The car, in passing, lit up the front of the cottage,
Or else I had hardly seen in the darkened door
The face of a man who stared out into the midnight
With eyes whose look my heart can forget no more.
Wild eyes that stared, undazzled by the headlamps,
Nor even seemed aware of a passing light,
My heart is yours, though I never learn till doomsday
From what fierce heart you looked, and into what night.

God , in thy mercy, keep us with thy hand!
Dark are the thoughts that strive within the heart,
When evil passions rise like sudden storms,
Fearful and fierce! Let us not act those thoughts;
Leave not our course to our unguided will.
Left to ourselves, all crime is possible,
And those who seemed the most removed from guilt
Have sunk the deepest!

If ever angels walked on weary earth
In human likeness, thou wert one of them.
Thy native heaven was with thee, but subdued
By suffering life's inevitable lot;
But the sweet spirit did assert its home
By faith and hope, and only owned its yoke
In the strong love that bound it to its kind.

The river Po,
A ghostly serpent-line,
Rested on the brown plains of Lombardy.