File:Works (1895) (14740415316).jpg

"Go, look in any glass and say,
What moral is in being fair"

Identifier: worksalf02tenn (find matches)
Title: Works
Year: 1895 (1890s)
Authors: Tennyson, Alfred Tennyson, Baron, 1809-1892 Rolfe, W. J. (William James), 1827-1910
Subjects:
Publisher: Boston : Estes and Lauriat
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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Text Appearing Before Image:
, What eyes, like thine, have wakend hopes, What lips, like thine, so sweetly joind? Where on the double rosebud droops The fulness of the pensive mind; Which all too dearly self-involved, Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me, —A sleep by kisses undissolved, That lets thee neither hear nor see: But break it. In the name of wife. And in the rights that name may give, Are claspd the moral of thy life. And that for which I care to live. 234 THE DAY-DREAM. EPILOGUE. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find a meaning there, O, whisper to your glass, and say, * What wonder if he thinks me fair? *What wonder I was all unwise. To shape the song for your delight Like long-taild birds of Paradise That float thro Heaven, and cannot light? Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid-boys of blooming hue —But take it — earnest wed with sport. And either sacred unto you. Go, look in any glass and say, What moral is in being fair. The Day-Dream. ■ Photogravure from painting by Heman Winthrop Peirce
Text Appearing After Image:
AMPHION. 235 AMPHION. My father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree. And waster than a warren: Yet say the neighbours when they call, It is not bad but good land, And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great In days of old Amphion, And taen my fiddle to the gate, Nor cared for seed or scion! And had I lived when song was great, And legs of trees were limber. And taen my fiddle to the gate, And fiddled in the timber! Tis said he had a tuneful tongue. Such happy intonation, 236 AMPHION. Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation; Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move, And flounder into hornpipes. The mountain stirrd its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches. Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing. The linden b

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