Loading Search

• Buy this Book
• Book Creators
• Related Blog Posts
• Share on Twitter
• Share on Facebook

This historic book may have numerous typos, missing text or index. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1894. Not illustrated. Excerpt: ... SELECTIONS FROM THE POEMS OF HENRY PATMORE Died February 24, 1883. /et. 22. NOTE. On the clay before my son Henry died I told him I would print some of his verses in the next edition of my own. Si... More

This historic book may have numerous typos, missing text or index. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1894. Not illustrated. Excerpt: ... SELECTIONS FROM THE POEMS OF HENRY PATMORE Died February 24, 1883. /et. 22. NOTE. On the clay before my son Henry died I told him I would print some of his verses in the next edition of my own. Since then a small volume of his poems has been issued from the private press of the Reverend Henry Daniel, at Oxford. I now take the opportunity of fulfilling my promise more exactly. LAMENT Of one who could go out only in a bath-chair, the doctor recommending the morning; but once being out on a January afternoon, he felt some sadness at tasting a pleasure which he had almost forgotten. OLET me, as I ought to, grieve For loss of thee, dear time of eve; Let me be thankful as I ought, For forced remembrance and sad thought. The quiet passionate evening time Has been my love and oft my rhyme; The orient day's divine ascent I have loved with less of love's content: More like our life and so more sweet This time when earth and heaven so meet. Almost did I--oh sin--forget The dim delight of the sunset; The round sun lingering misty red, Ere in the sea he sinks to bed; The tremor and the blush upon The sea, expecting the red sun; The movement of that hour so still; The sense that goes before the will, And thoughts that heavy lag behind, And bring the quiet to the mind; And what delights the eye not least, VOL.11. P The gloom of the deserted east, All empty of the glorious sun, And darkness seen where morning shone. The hill, that tip-toe did defy With rugged head the early sky, Now, in the gentle mist more great, Leans down on earth with all its weight; And here the old street slumbers deep, And red-tiled cottages asleep Look lazy, lost, and quieted In drowsy dreams of ages dead. And still the setting light is kind, And somehow finds its way behind To where the cottage childre...

You must be a member of JacketFlap to add a video to this page. Please Log In or Register.