Love Scorned by Pride

Oh, far is fled the winter wind,
And far is fled the frost and snow,
But the cold scorn on my love's brow
Hath never yet prepared to go.

More lasting than ten winters' wind,
More cutting than ten weeks of frost,
Is the chill frowning of thy mind,
Where my poor heart was pledged and lost.

I see thee taunting down the street,
And by the frowning that I see
I might have known it long ere now,
Thy love was never meant for me.

Oh, had I known ere I began
That love had been so hard to win,
I would have filled my heart with pride,
Nor left one hope to let love in.

I would have wrapped it in my breast,
And pinned it with a silver pin,
Safe as a bird within its nest,
And 'scaped the trouble I am in.

I wish I was a happy bird,
And thou a true and timid dove:
Oh, I would fly the land of grief,
And rest me in the land of love.

Oh, I would rest where I love best;
Where I love best I may not be:
A hawk doth on that rose-tree sit,
And drives young love to fear and flee.

Oh, would I were the goldfinch gay!
My richer suit had tempted strong.
Oh, would I were the nightingale!
Thou then hadst listened to my song.

Though deep thy scorn, I cannot hate;
Thy beauty's sweet, though sour thy pride;
To praise thee is to love thee still,
And it doth cheer my heart beside.

For I could swim the deepest lake,
And I could climb the highest tree,
The greatest danger face and brave,
And all for one kind kiss of thee.

Oh, love is here, and love is there:
Oh, love is like no other thing:
Its frowns can make a king a slave,
Its smiles can make a slave a king.

The Dream

Fierce raged destruction, sweeping o'er the land,
And the last counted moment seemed at hand:
As scales near equal hang the earnest eyes
In doubtful balance which shall fall or rise,
So, in the moment of that crashing blast,
Eyes, hearts, and hopes paused trembling for the last.
Loud burst the thunder's clap, and yawning rents
Gashed the frail garments of the elements;
Then sudden whirlwinds, winged with purple flame
And lightnings' flash, in stronger terrors came;
Burning all life and nature where they fell,
And leaving earth as desolate as hell.
(lines 49-60)

Left in the world alone

[Image: 'Crow' from a Carry Akroyd poster]

Left in the world alone
Where nothing seems my own
And everything is weariness to me

'Tis a life without an end
'Tis a world without a friend
And everything is sorrowful I see

There's the crow upon the stack
And other birds all black
While November's frowning wearily

And the black-clouds dropping rain
'Till the floods hide half the plain
And everything is weariness to me

The sun shines wan and pale
Chill blows the northern gale
And odd leaves shake and shiver on the tree

While I am left alone
Chilled as a mossy stone
And all the world is frowning over me


I dreamed of love and thought it sweet
And took the winter for the spring;
A maiden's charms won me to woo
Where beauty's blooms so thick did hing
That I from thence did fear no blast
To bid young hope's frail bud decay,
Till tenderest words met bitter scorn
And then I wished myself away—

But all too late; and such as she
Might well deceive the wisest mind,
For love sure ne'er met one before
So scornful bent, so seeming kind;
For fair as spring, as summer warm,
Her young blood it did seem to flow;
And yet her heart did prove so cold
Love's bud died there and could not blow.

Her face looks open as the day,
And in her lips and in her eyes
Smiles and goodwill do seem to play,
That are love's deaths in green disguise;
Her breasts peep from her kerchief folds
Like sunshine thro' a parting cloud,
And yet love finds within that bed
Naught but a dead and wintry shroud.

All hopes are gone that wished her mine;
And now her mind I prove and know
I'm glad—and yet methinks those hopes
That then did cheat did cheer me so
I almost wish I ne'er had sued,
But still hoped on and still believed;
For it were best to dream of joy
Than thus to wake and be deceived.

The autumn morn...

[ Image: ‘Autumn Field’ – NaomiBlum ( ]

The autumn morn looks mellow as the fruit
& ripe as harvest — every field & farm
Is full of health & toil — yet never mute
With rustic mirth & peace the day is warm
The village maid with gleans upon her arm
Brown as the hazel nut from field to field
Goes cheerily — the valleys native charm —
I seek for charms that autumn best can yield
In mellowing wood & time bleaching field

(Child Harold – lines 657-665)

Written in November

Autumn I love thy latter end to view
In cold novembers day so bleak & bare
When like lifes dwindld thread worn nearly thro
Wi lingering pottering pace & head bleachd bare
Thou like an old man bids the world adieu
I love thee well & often when a child
Have roamd the bare brown heath a flower to find
& in the moss clad vale & wood bank wild
Have cropt the little bell flowers paley blue
That trembling peept the sheltering bush behind
When winnowing north winds cold & blealy blew
How have I joyd wi dithering hands to find
Each fading flower & still how sweet the blast
Woud bleak novembers hour Restore the joy thats past


The autumn day it fades away,
The fields are wet and dreary;
The rude storm takes the flowers of May,
And nature seemeth weary.

The partridge coveys shunning fate,
Hide in the bleaching stubble;
And many a bird without its mate,
Mourns o'er its lonely trouble.

On awthorns shine the crimson awe,
Where spring brought may-day blossoms;
Decay is natures cheerless law,
Life's winter in our bosoms.

The fields are brown and naked all,
But hedges still are green:
But storms shall come at autumns fall,
And not a leaf be seen!

Yet happy love that warms the heart,
Through darkest storms severe;
Keeps many a tender flower to start,—
When spring shall reappear,

Affections hope shall roseys meet;
Like those of summer bloom:—
And joys, and flowers, smell as sweet,
In seasons yet to come.