In Memoriam A.H.H. (1850)

Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall: But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With an ancient mel…

With blackest moss the flower plots Were thickly crusted, one and all; The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable wall. The broken sh…

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows…

If they had said that the sun or the moon had gone out of the heavens, it could not have struck me with the idea of a more awful and dreary blank in creation t…

Child of mortality, whence comest thou? Why is thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes red with weeping?

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?