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Best Famous Walter Savage Landor Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Walter Savage Landor poems. This is a select list of the best famous Walter Savage Landor poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Walter Savage Landor poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of walter savage landor poems.

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Written by Walter Savage Landor |


 Whoever has no house now will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone Will sit, read, write long letters through the evening And wander on the boulevards, up and down.
- from Autumn Day, Rainer Maria Rilke Its stain is everywhere.
The sharpening air of late afternoon is now the colour of tea.
Once-glycerined green leaves burned by a summer sun are brittle and ochre.
Night enters day like a thief.
And children fear that the beautiful daylight has gone.
Whoever has no house now will never have one.
It is the best and the worst time.
Around a fire, everyone laughing, brocaded curtains drawn, nowhere-anywhere-is more safe than here.
The whole world is a cup one could hold in one's hand like a stone warmed by that same summer sun.
But the dead or the near dead are now all knucklebone.
Whoever is alone will stay alone.
Nothing to do.
Nothing to really do.
Toast and tea are nothing.
Kettle boils dry.
Shut the night out or let it in, it is a cat on the wrong side of the door whichever side it is on.
A black thing with its implacable face.
To avoid it you will tell yourself you are something, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening.
Even though there is bounty, a full harvest that sharp sweetness in the tea-stained air is reserved for those who have made a straw fine as a hair to suck it through- fine as a golden hair.
Wearing a smile or a frown God's face is always there.
It is up to you if you take your wintry restlessness into the town and wander on the boulevards, up and down.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

The Three Roses

 When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part.
" Many summers have gone by Since a Second Rose and I (Rose from the same stem) have told This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding day Carried home my tenderest lay: From her lap I now have heard Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine; Cold and torpid it must lie, Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

On His Seventy-fifth Birthday

 I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

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Written by Walter Savage Landor |

Death Stands Above Me Whispering Low

 Death stands above me, whispering low 
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

Dying Speech of an Old Philosopher

 I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

On His Eightieth Birthday

 To my ninth decade I have tottered on, 
And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady; 
She, who once led me where she would, is gone, 
So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

Ianthe! You are Calld to Cross the Sea

 Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea!
A path forbidden me!
Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds
Upon the mountain-heads,
How often we have watcht him laying down
His brow, and dropt our own
Against each other's, and how faint and short
And sliding the support!
What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest,
Ianthe! nor will rest
But on the very thought that swells with pain.
O bid me hope again! O give me back what Earth, what (without you) Not Heaven itself can do-- One of the golden days that we have past, And let it be my last! Or else the gift would be, however sweet, Fragile and incomplete.

Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne |

In Memory of Walter Savage Landor

 Back to the flower-town, side by side,
The bright months bring,
New-born, the bridegroom and the bride,
Freedom and spring.
The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, Filled full of sun; All things come back to her, being free; All things but one.
In many a tender wheaten plot Flowers that were dead Live, and old suns revive; but not That holier head.
By this white wandering waste of sea, Far north, I hear One face shall never turn to me As once this year: Shall never smile and turn and rest On mine as there, Nor one most sacred hand be prest Upon my hair.
I came as one whose thoughts half linger, Half run before; The youngest to the oldest singer That England bore.
I found him whom I shall not find Till all grief end, In holiest age our mightiest mind, Father and friend.
But thou, if anything endure, If hope there be, O spirit that man's life left pure, Man's death set free, Not with disdain of days that were Look earthward now; Let dreams revive the reverend hair, The imperial brow; Come back in sleep, for in the life Where thou art not We find none like thee.
Time and strife And the world's lot Move thee no more; but love at least And reverent heart May move thee, royal and released, Soul, as thou art.
And thou, his Florence, to thy trust Receive and keep, Keep safe his dedicated dust, His sacred sleep.
So shall thy lovers, come from far, Mix with thy name As morning-star with evening-star His faultless fame.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

The Dragon-Fly

 Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath a cool syringa’s scented shade,
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly,
Wanders as careless and content as I.
Thanks for this fancy, insect king, Of purple crest and filmy wing, Who with indifference givest up The water-lily’s golden cup, To come again and overlook What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line Will read with hornier eyes than thine; And yet their souls shall live for ever, And thine drop dead into the river! God pardon them, O insect king, Who fancy so unjust a thing!

Written by Walter Savage Landor |


 THERE is a mountain and a wood between us, 
Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen us 
 Morning and noon and eventide repass.
Between us now the mountain and the wood Seem standing darker than last year they stood, And say we must not cross--alas! alas!

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

F?sulan Idyl

 Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want;
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, (Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die, Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart, Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; I saw the foot, that, altho half-erect From its grey slipper, could not lift her up To what she wanted: I held down a branch And gather'd her some blossoms, since their hour Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies Of harder wing were working their way thro And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, For such appear the petals when detacht, Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, And like snow not seen thro, by eye or sun: Yet every one her gown received from me Was fairer than the first .
I thought not so, But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said: you find the largest.
This indeed, Cried she, is large and sweet.
She held one forth, Whether for me to look at or to take She knew not, nor did I; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts.
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch To fall, and yet unfallen.
She drew back The boon she tendered, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

Who Ever Felt as I?

 Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

Late Leaves

 THE leaves are falling; so am I; 
The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; 
 So have I too.
Scarcely on any bough is heard Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird The whole wood through.
Winter may come: he brings but nigher His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire Where old friends meet.
Let him; now heaven is overcast, And spring and summer both are past, And all things sweet.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

Mother I cannot mind my Wheel

 MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel; 
 My fingers ache, my lips are dry: 
O, if you felt the pain I feel! 
 But O, who ever felt as I? 

No longer could I doubt him true-- 
 All other men may use deceit; 
He always said my eyes were blue, 
 And often swore my lips were sweet.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

Rose Aylmer

 Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.