Walter Savage Landor

The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walked along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in …

There is delight in singing, though none hear Beside the singer.

When we play the fool, how wide The theatre expands! beside, How long the audience sits before us! How many prompters! what a chorus!

'Tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

Ah what avails the sceptered race, Ah what the form divine!

But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue... Shake one, and it awakens; then apply Its polished lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.