Poem#Sadness
Rose Aylmer
Poem byWalter Savage Landor · 1775–1864
Commonly attributed — not confirmed in an authoritative edition. Text from PoetryDB's public-domain archive; not yet checked against a printed edition.
English (original)
Ah, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.
— Walter Savage Landor
More from Walter Savage Landor
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Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thy urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot, Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return!
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MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: O, if you felt the pain I feel! But O, who ever felt as I?
The Three Roses
When the buds began to burst, Long ago, with Rose the First I was walking; joyous then Far above all other men,
One Lovely Name
One lovely name adorns my song, And, dwelling in the heart, Forever falters at the tongue, And trembles to depart.
On His Eightieth Birthday
To my ninth decade I have tottered on, And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady; She, who once led me where she would, is gone, So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
In spring and summer winds may blow
In spring and summer winds may blow, And rains fall after, hard and fast; The tender leaves, if beaten low, Shine but the more for shower and blast