Frances Anne Kemble
Frances Anne Kemble Poems
Comments about Frances Anne Kemble
The golden hinges of the year have turned—
Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time
Have come, and gone; and on the threshold stands
The withered Winter, stretching forth his hands
To take my rose from me;—which he will wear
On his bleak bosom, all the bitter months
While the earth and I remain disconsolate.
My rose!—with the soft vesture of her leaves,
Gathered all round the secrets of her heart
In crimson fragrant folds,—within her bower
Of fair fresh green, guarded with maiden thorns.
O withered Winter! keep my blossom safe!
Thou shalt not kiss her ...
A German Legend
Round thy steep castle walls,
Who seeks thy love must ride,
Who from their dizzy summit falls,
Must death abide.
O Lady proud and fair,
'Tis not too much;
Gladly that death I dare
Thy lovely lips to touch.
Tears in thy blue eyes springing,