Evening.
The Love-Tryst.
O hasten, hasten down your azure road, And darken all the golden zones of heaven, Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.
An Epistle to a Friend.
Not all the sweets of Castaly— That river Heliconian, Adorn’d with swans of queenly snow, Of ancient brood Strymonian; Not all the maiden Muses nine, With tresses loosely flowing, Could magnetise a single line, Or set my quill a-going;
Until I thought of thee, dear friend— Best loved, though long unheeded; Then forth the virgin pages came, And quick my fingers speeded. This very hour I’ll make amends, This lonely hour quiescent, When all the stars are in the blue, ’Mid lustre irridescent.