Anne Whitney



And for that thou art Beauty, and thy name...

by Anne Whitney

And for that thou art Beauty, and thy name
Transcends all praise of thee, and doth but leave
Thyself for thy true rendering, I grieve
O'er idle words. O never dost thou blame,
But seekest to inspire me all the same,
With thine immortal freshness! Through the night
The moon comes large and slow, winging with light
The joyous sea; while sunset's last red flame,
Baring the heavens for glories to succeed,
Goes softly out, with endless farewell gleams,
Ebbing along the yellow marge of day;
Glides slow, with backward gaze; sadly indeed,
And slow, as from the heart which new love claims
An older memory doth steal away.


Copyright 1859
346 & 348 Broadway
D. Appleton & Company
New York

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(My heart is sick with longing, though I feed) - Thomas HoodNight - Anne WhitneyOn Fame (Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy ...). - John KeatsO night, a terrible dismay still lurks... - Anne WhitneyOn Fame (How fever'd is the man, who cannot look ...) - John KeatsO solitude! if I must with thee dwell, - John KeatsFrom all these mounds, though day blows fresh and warm, - Anne WhitneyTO G. A. 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