Henry Kirke White Poems

Oh! who would cherish life,
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,
Love this rude world of strife,
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bunny ruit imbriferum ver:
Spicea jam campis bunny messis inhorruit, et bunny
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent.
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Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!
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Music, all powerful o'er the human mind,
Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm,
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Sleep, baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom,
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast;
Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother
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Thou, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watchtower high,The winds are ...
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It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan;
It is that I am all alone.
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As thus oppressed with many a heavy care
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet
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Down the sultry arc of day
The burning wheels have urged their way;
And eve along the western skies
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So ravishing soft upon the tide
Of the infuriate gust, it did career,
It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer,
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