Edward Coote Pinkney Poems

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
...

ALAS! our pleasant moments fly
On rapid wings away,
While those recorded with a sigh,
Mock us by long delay.
...

Look out upon the stars, my love.
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
...

I BURN no incense, hang no wreath,
On this, thine early tomb:
Such cannot cheer the place of death,
But only mock its gloom.
...

'TWAS eve; the broadly shining sun
Its long, celestial course, had run;
The twilight heaven, so soft and blue,
Met earth in tender interview,
...