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William Pitt. (d. 1840) (continued)

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My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots
About their heads are flying!

The Sailor’s Consolation.

Walter Savage Landor. (1775–1864)

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Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

Rose Aylmer.

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Wearers of rings and chains!
Pray do not take the pains
To set me right.
In vain my faults ye quote;
I write as others wrote
On Sunium’s hight.

The last Fruit of an old Tree. Epigram cvi.

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Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world’s,—1
Therefore on him no speech! And brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walk’d along our roads with steps
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse.

To Robert Browning.

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The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

To Robert Browning.

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But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed
In the sun’s palace-porch, where when unyoked
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave:
Shake one, and it awakens; then apply
Its polisht lips to your attentive ear,

Note 1.
Nor sequent centuries could hit
Orbit and sum of Shakespeare’s wit.
Ralph Waldo Emerson: May-Day and Other Pieces. Solution. [back]