Walter Learned

It is not here I best enjoy
The pleasure, that can never cloy,
Of idly roaming London town,
Where such familiar names look down
...

To you, whose temperate pulses flow
With measured beat, serene and slow,
The even tenor of whose way
...

The promise of these fragrant flowers,
The fruit that 'neath these blossoms lies
Once hung, they say, in Eden's bowers,
...

Sullen and dull, in the September day,
On the bank of the river,
...

'Twas as she slept that Cupid came,
His bow and arrows taking,
That she might feel his power in dreams
Who scorned his weapons waking.
...

A dove lay caught in a fowler’s snare;
By cruel cords her wings were pressed,
Ruffled was all her plumage fair,
...

Sweet sixteen is shy and cold,
Calls me 'sir,' and thinks me old;
Hears in am embarrassed way
...

You say, when I kissed you, you are sure I must quite
Have forgotten myself. So I did; you are right.
...

Her lips were so near
That--what else could I do?
You'll be angry, I fear.
...

At Cato's Head in Russell Street
These leaves she sat a-stitching;
I fancy she was trim and neat,
...

THe robin plucks the berry red,
And tastes its spicy flavor;
The dainty bee, the flowerlet wooes,
And sips its honeyed favor.
...

When blushing cheeks and downcast eyes
Set all the heart aflame,
When love within a dimple lies
And constancy's a name,
...

Just as I thought I was growing old,
Ready to sit in my easy chair,
To watch the world with a heart grown cold,
...

Am stretched on the grass and am watching the sky,
As the sunset clouds go drifting by,
And wondering whether such glorious weather,
...

When I was ten and she fifteen--
Ah, me! how fair I thought her.
She treated with disdainful mien
...

When I was seventeen I heard
From each censorious tongue,
'I'd not do that if I were you;
You see you're rather young.'
...

With half averted face she stood
And answered to his questioning eyes,
''Tis nothing. It is but my mood;
...

With pen and ink one might indite
A sonnet, or indeed might write
A billet-doux, or, eke to raise
The wind, a note for thirty days.
...

Softly the summer wind woos the rose
Like a fickle lover.
He kisses her petals then off he goes
The fair fields over.
...