Best Famous Lingered Poems

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

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• All Famous Lingered Poems

Written by Robert Frost | A Late Walk When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore | The Journey The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by. The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. All honor to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation ---in the shadow of a dim delight. The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had traveled, and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs. At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard!

Written by Robert William Service | A Hero Three times I had the lust to kill, To clutch a throat so young and fair, And squeeze with all my might until No breath of being lingered there. Three times I drove the demon out, Though on my brow was evil sweat. . . . And yet I know beyond a doubt He'll get me yet, he'll get me yet. I know I'm mad, I ought to tell The doctors, let them care for me, Confine me in a padded cell And never, never set me free; But Oh how cruel that would be! For I am young - and comely too . . . Yet dim my demon I can see, And there is but one thing to do. Three times I beat the foul fiend back; The fourth, I know he will prevail, And so I'll seek the railway track And lay my head upon the rail, And sight the dark and distant train, And hear its thunder louder roll, Coming to crush my cursed brain . . . Oh God, have mercy on my soul!

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | The Song of Hiawatha: X X. Hiawatha's Wooing "As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman, Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him, yet she follows, Useless each without the other!" Thus the youthful Hiawatha Said within himself and pondered, Much perplexed by various feelings, Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, Dreaming still of Minnehaha, Of the lovely Laughing Water, In the land of the Dacotahs. "Wed a maiden of your people," Warning said the old Nokomis; "Go not eastward, go not westward, For a stranger, whom we know not! Like a fire upon the hearth-stone Is a neighbor's homely daughter, Like the starlight or the moonlight Is the handsomest of strangers!" Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, And my Hiawatha answered Only this: "Dear old Nokomis, Very pleasant is the firelight, But I like the starlight better, Better do I like the moonlight!" Gravely then said old Nokomis: "Bring not here an idle maiden, Bring not here a useless woman, Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; Bring a wife with nimble fingers, Heart and hand that move together, Feet that run on willing errands!" Smiling answered Hiawatha: "In the land of the Dacotahs Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Handsomest of all the women. I will bring her to your wigwam, She shall run upon your errands, Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, Be the sunlight of my people!" Still dissuading said Nokomis: "Bring not to my lodge a stranger From the land of the Dacotahs! Very fierce are the Dacotahs, Often is there war between us, There are feuds yet unforgotten, Wounds that ache and still may open! Laughing answered Hiawatha: "For that reason, if no other, Would I wed the fair Dacotah, That our tribes might be united, That old feuds might be forgotten, And old wounds be healed forever!" Thus departed Hiawatha To the land of the Dacotahs, To the land of handsome women; Striding over moor and meadow, Through interminable forests, Through uninterrupted silence. With his moccasins of magic, At each stride a mile he measured; Yet the way seemed long before him, And his heart outran his footsteps; And he journeyed without resting, Till he heard the cataract's laughter, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to him through the silence. "Pleasant is the sound!" he murmured, "Pleasant is the voice that calls me!" On the outskirts of the forests, 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, Herds of fallow deer were feeding, But they saw not Hiawatha; To his bow be whispered, "Fail not!" To his arrow whispered, "Swerve not!" Sent it singing on its errand, To the red heart of the roebuck; Threw the deer across his shoulder, And sped forward without pausing. At the doorway of his wigwam Sat his ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs, Making arrow-heads of jasper, Arrow-heads of chalcedony. At his side, in all her beauty, Sat the lovely Minnehaha, Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; Of the past the old man's thoughts were, And the maiden's of the future. He was thinking, as he sat there, Of the days when with such arrows He had struck the deer and bison, On the Muskoday, the meadow; Shot the wild goose, flying southward, On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; Thinking of the great war-parties, How they came to buy his arrows, Could not fight without his arrows. Ah, no more such noble warriors Could be found on earth as they were! Now the men were all like women, Only used their tongues for weapons! She was thinking of a hunter, From another tribe and country, Young and tall and very handsome, Who one morning, in the Spring-time, Came to buy her father's arrows, Lingered long about the doorway, Sat and rested in the wigwam, Looking back as he departed. She had heard her father praise him, Praise his courage and his wisdom; Would he come again for arrows To the Falls of Minnehaha? On the mat her hands lay idle, And her eyes were very dreamy. Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, Heard a rustling in the branches, And with glowing cheek and forehead, With the deer upon his shoulders, Suddenly from out the woodlands Hiawatha stood before them. Straight the ancient Arrow-maker Looked up gravely from his labor, Laid aside the unfinished arrow, Bade him enter at the doorway, Saying, as he rose to meet him, "Hiawatha, you are welcome!" At the feet of Laughing Water Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his shoulders; And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, "You are welcome, Hiawatha!" Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skins dressed and whitened, With the Gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on its curtains, And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter, Hardly touched his eagle-feathers As he entered at the doorway. Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha, Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered. Yes, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful. "After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dacotahs. " Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, 'That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Loveliest of Dacotah women! And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water, And made answer very gravely: "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant, As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said, and blushed to say it, "I will follow you, my husband!" This was Hiawatha's wooing! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs! From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!" And the ancient Arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying: "Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us! Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger!" Pleasant was the journey homeward, Through interminable forests, Over meadow, over mountain, Over river, hill, and hollow. Short it seemed to Hiawatha, Though they journeyed very slowly, Though his pace he checked and slackened To the steps of Laughing Water. Over wide and rushing rivers In his arms he bore the maiden; Light he thought her as a feather, As the plume upon his head-gear; Cleared the tangled pathway for her, Bent aside the swaying branches, Made at night a lodge of branches, And a bed with boughs of hemlock, And a fire before the doorway With the dry cones of the pine-tree. All the travelling winds went with them, O'er the meadows, through the forest; All the stars of night looked at them, Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber; From his ambush in the oak-tree Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Watched with eager eyes the lovers; And the rabbit, the Wabasso, Scampered from the path before them, Peering, peeping from his burrow, Sat erect upon his haunches, Watched with curious eyes the lovers. Pleasant was the journey homeward! All the birds sang loud and sweetly Songs of happiness and heart's-ease; Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, "Happy are you, Hiawatha, Having such a wife to love you!" Sang the robin, the Opechee, "Happy are you, Laughing Water, Having such a noble husband!" From the sky the sun benignant Looked upon them through the branches, Saying to them, "O my children, Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine, Rule by love, O Hiawatha!" From the sky the moon looked at them, Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, Whispered to them, "O my children, Day is restless, night is quiet, Man imperious, woman feeble; Half is mine, although I follow; Rule by patience, Laughing Water!" Thus it was they journeyed homeward; Thus it was that Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, Brought the sunshine of his people, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Handsomest of all the women In the land of the Dacotahs, In the land of handsome women.

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question. . . Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate, Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— (They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!") My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— (They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!") Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute win reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet-and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"— If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: "That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all. " And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: "That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all. " No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Written by W S Merwin | Green Fields By this part of the century few are left who believe in the animals for they are not there in the carved parts of them served on plates and the pleas from the slatted trucks are sounds of shadows that possess no future there is still game for the pleasure of killing and there are pets for the children but the lives that followed courses of their own other than ours and older have been migrating before us some are already far on the way and yet Peter with his gaunt cheeks and point of white beard the face of an aged Lawrence Peter who had lived on from another time and country and who had seen so many things set out and vanish still believed in heaven and said he had never once doubted it since his childhood on the farm in the days of the horses he had not doubted it in the worst times of the Great War and afterward and he had come to what he took to be a kind of earthly model of it as he wandered south in his sixties by that time speaking the language well enough for them to make him out he took the smallest roads into a world he thought was a thing of the past with wildflowers he scarcely remembered and neighbors working together scything the morning meadows turning the hay before the noon meal bringing it in by milking time husbandry and abundance all the virtues he admired and their reward bounteous in the eyes of a foreigner and there he remained for the rest of his days seeing what he wanted to see until the winter when he could no longer fork the earth in his garden and then he gave away his house land everything and committed himself to a home to die in an old chateau where he lingered for some time surrounded by those who had lost the use of body or mind and as he lay there he told me that the wall by his bed opened almost every day and he saw what was really there and it was eternal life as he recognized at once when he saw the gardens he had made and the green fields where he had been a child and his mother was standing there then the wall would close and around him again were the last days of the world

Written by Robert Browning | The Last Ride Together I. I said---Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be--- My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,---I claim ---Only a memory of the same, ---And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me. II. My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me, a breathing-while or two, With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenished me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end tonight? III. Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions---sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once--- And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!--- Thus leant she and lingered---joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast. IV. Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. V. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought,---All labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride. VI. What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach, Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave. VII. What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you---poor, sick, old ere your time--- Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride. VIII. And you, great sculptor---so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown grey With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, ``Greatly his opera's strains intend, ``Put in music we know how fashions end!'' I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. IX. Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being---had I signed the bond--- Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. X. And yet---she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,--- And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

Written by Charles Bukowski | Young In New Orleans starving there, sitting around the bars, and at night walking the streets for hours, the moonlight always seemed fake to me, mabye it was, and in the French Quarter I watched the horses and buggies going by, everybody sitting high in the open carriages, the black driver, and in back the man and the woman, usually young and always white. and I was always white. and hardly charmed by the world. New Orleans was a place to hide. I could piss away my life, unmolested. except for the rats. the rats in my small dark room very much resented sharing it with me. they were large and fearless and stared at me with eyes that spoke an unblinking death. women were beyond me. they saw something depraved. there was one waitress a little older than I, she rather smiled, lingered when she brought my coffee. that was plenty for me, that was enough. there was something about that city, though: it didn't let me feel guilty that I had no feeling for the things so many others needed. it let me alone. sitting up in my bed the lights out, hearing the outside sounds, lifting my cheap bottle of wine, letting the warmth of the grape enter ]me as I heard the rats moving about the room, I preferred them to humans. being lost, being crazy mabye is not so bad if you can be that way: undisturbed. New Orleans gave me that. nobody ever called my name. no telephone, no car, no job, no anything. me and the rats and my youth, one time, that time I knew even through the nothingness, it was a celebration of something not to do but only know.

Written by Robert Frost | Evening in a Sugar Orchard From where I lingered in a lull in march outside the sugar-house one night for choice, I called the fireman with a careful voice And bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch: 'O fireman, give the fire another stoke, And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke. ' I thought a few might tangle, as they did, Among bare maple boughs, and in the rare Hill atmosphere not cease to glow, And so be added to the moon up there. The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show On every tree a bucket with a lid, And on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow. The sparks made no attempt to be the moon. They were content to figure in the trees As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades. And that was what the boughs were full of soon.

Written by Anne Bronte | Alexander And Zenobia Fair was the evening and brightly the sun Was shining on desert and grove, Sweet were the breezes and balmy the flowers And cloudless the heavens above. It was Arabia's distant land And peaceful was the hour; Two youthful figures lay reclined Deep in a shady bower. One was a boy of just fourteen Bold beautiful and bright; Soft raven curls hung clustering round A brow of marble white. The fair brow and ruddy cheek Spoke of less burning skies; Words cannot paint the look that beamed In his dark lustrous eyes. The other was a slender girl, Blooming and young and fair. The snowy neck was shaded with The long bright sunny hair. And those deep eyes of watery blue, So sweetly sad they seemed. And every feature in her face With pensive sorrow teemed. The youth beheld her saddened air And smiling cheerfully He said, 'How pleasant is the land Of sunny Araby! 'Zenobia, I never saw A lovelier eve than this; I never felt my spirit raised With more unbroken bliss! 'So deep the shades, so calm the hour, So soft the breezes sigh, So sweetly Philomel begins Her heavenly melody. 'So pleasant are the scents that rise From flowers of loveliest hue, And more than all -- Zenobia, I am alone with you! Are we not happy here alone In such a healthy spot?' He looked to her with joyful smile But she returned it not. 'Why are you sorrowful?' he asked And heaved a bitter sigh, 'O tell me why those drops of woe Are gathering in your eye. ' 'Gladly would I rejoice,' she said, 'But grief weighs down my heart. 'Can I be happy when I know Tomorrow we must part? 'Yes, Alexander, I must see This happy land no more. At break of day I must return To distant Gondal's shore. 'At morning we must bid farewell, And at the close of day You will be wandering alone And I shall be away. 'I shall be sorrowing for you On the wide weltering sea, And you will perhaps have wandered here To sit and think of me. ' 'And shall we part so soon?' he cried, 'Must we be torn away? Shall I be left to mourn alone? Will you no longer stay? 'And shall we never meet again, Hearts that have grown together? Must they at once be rent away And kept apart for ever?' 'Yes, Alexander, we must part, But we may meet again, For when I left my native land I wept in anguish then. 'Never shall I forget the day I left its rocky shore. We thought that we had bid adieu To meet on earth no more. 'When we had parted how I wept To see the mountains blue Grow dimmer and more distant -- till They faded from my view. 'And you too wept -- we little thought After so long a time, To meet again so suddenly In such a distant clime. 'We met on Grecia's classic plain, We part in Araby. And let us hope to meet again Beneath our Gondal's sky. ' 'Zenobia, do you remember A little lonely spring Among Exina's woody hills Where blackbirds used to sing, 'And when they ceased as daylight faded From the dusky sky The pensive nightingale began Her matchless melody? 'Sweet bluebells used to flourish there And tall trees waved on high, And through their ever sounding leaves The soft wind used to sigh. 'At morning we have often played Beside that lonely well; At evening we have lingered there Till dewy twilight fell. 'And when your fifteenth birthday comes, Remember me, my love, And think of what I said to you In this sweet spicy grove. 'At evening wander to that spring And sit and wait for me; And 'ere the sun has ceased to shine I will return to thee. 'Two years is a weary time But it will soon be fled. And if you do not meet me -- know I am not false but dead. ' * * * Sweetly the summer day declines On forest, plain, and hill And in that spacious palace hall So lonely, wide and still. Beside a window's open arch, In the calm evening air All lonely sits a stately girl, Graceful and young and fair. The snowy lid and lashes long Conceal her downcast eye, She's reading and till now I have Passed unnoticed by. But see she cannot fix her thoughts, They are wandering away; She looks towards a distant dell Where sunny waters play. And yet her spirit is not with The scene she looks upon; She muses with a mournful smile On pleasures that are gone. She looks upon the book again That chained her thoughts before, And for a moment strives in vain To fix her mind once more. Then gently drops it on her knee And looks into the sky, While trembling drops are shining in Her dark celestial eye. And thus alone and still she sits Musing on years gone by. Till with a sad and sudden smile She rises up to go; And from the open window springs On to the grass below. Why does she fly so swiftly now Adown the meadow green, And o'er the gently swelling hills And the vale that lies between? She passes under giant trees That lift their arms on high And slowly wave their mighty boughs In the clear evening sky, And now she threads a path that winds Through deeply shaded groves Where nought is heard but sighing gales And murmuring turtle doves. She hastens on through sunless gloom To a vista opening wide; A marble fountain sparkles there With sweet flowers by its side. At intervals in the velvet grass A few old elm trees rise, While a warm flood of yellow light Streams from the western skies. Is this her resting place? Ah, no, She hastens onward still, The startled deer before her fly As she ascends the hill. She does not rest till she has gained A lonely purling spring, Where zephyrs wave the verdant trees And birds in concert sing. And there she stands and gazes round With bright and searching eye, Then sadly sighing turns away And looks upon the sky. She sits down on the flowery turf Her head drooped on her hand; Her soft luxuriant golden curls Are by the breezes fanned. A sweet sad smile plays on her lips; Her heart is far away, And thus she sits till twilight comes To take the place of day. But when she looks towards the west And sees the sun is gone And hears that every bird but one To its nightly rest is flown, And sees that over nature's face A sombre veil is cast With mournful voice and tearful eye She says, 'The time is past! 'He will not come! I might have known It was a foolish hope; But it was so sweet to cherish I could not yield it up. 'It may be foolish thus to weep But I cannot check my tears To see in one short hour destroyed The darling hope of years. 'He is not false, but he was young And time rolls fast away. Has he forgotten the vow he made To meet me here today? 'No. If he lives he loves me still And still remembers me. If he is dead -- my joys are sunk In utter misery. 'We parted in the spicy groves Beneath Arabia's sky. How could I hope to meet him now Where Gondal's breezes sigh? 'He was a shining meteor light That faded from the skies, But I mistook him for a star That only set to rise. 'And with a firm yet trembling hand I've clung to this false hope; I dared not surely trust in it Yet would not yield it up. 'And day and night I've thought of him And loved him constantly, And prayed that Heaven would prosper him Wherever he might be. 'He will not come; he's wandering now On some far distant shore, Or else he sleeps the sleep of death And cannot see me more! 'O, Alexander, is it thus? Did we but meet to part? Long as I live thy name will be Engraven on my heart. 'I shall not cease to think of thee While life and thought remain, For well I know that I can never See thy like again!' She ceases now and dries her tears But still she lingers there In silent thought till night is come And silver stars appear. But lo! a tall and stately youth Ascends the grassy slope; His bright dark eyes are glancing round, His heart beats high with hope. He has journyed on unweariedly From dawn of day till now, The warm blood kindles in his cheek, The sweat is on his brow. But he has gained the green hill top Where lies that lonely spring, And lo! he pauses when he hears Its gentle murmuring. He dares not enter through the trees That veil it from his eye; He listens for some other sound In deep anxiety. But vainly -- all is calm and still; Are his bright day dreams o'er? Has he thus hoped and longed in vain, And must they meet no more? One moment more of sad suspense And those dark trees are past; The lonely well bursts on his sight And they are met at last!