The old seraph, parcel-gilded, among violets Inhaled the appointed odor, while the doves Rose up like phantoms from chronologies.

It is of him, ephebe, to make, to confect The final elegance, not to console Nor sanctify, but plainly to propound.

The bees came booming as if they had never gone, As if hyacinths had never gone. We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls,…

What chieftain, walking by himself, crying Most miserable, most victorious, Does not see these separate figures one by one, And yet see only one, in his old co…

It was a face which darkness could kill in an instant

The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, …

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden scepter o'er a slumbering world.