First Lines of Thomas Bailey Aldrich
A certain bird in a certain wood,A glance, a word -- and joy or painA little mound with chipped headstone,A poor dwarf's figure, looming through the denseBlack tragedy lets slip her grim disguiseBonnet in hand, obsequious and discreet,Day is a snow-white Dove of heavenEre the moon begins to riseFaint murmurs from the pine-tops reach my ear,Fixed to her necklace, like another gem,Gifts they sent her manifold,Great thoughts in crude, inadequate verse set forth,Herewith I send you three pressed withered flowers:High in a tower she sings,Honest Iago." When his breath was fledI gave my heart its freedom to be gayI little read those poets who have madeIf my best wines mislike thy taste,Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep,In their dark House of CloudIn youth my hair was black as night,Let art be all in all," one time I said,Let us keep him warm,Manoah's son, in his blind rage malign,No bird has ever uttered noteNo slightest golden rhyme he wroteNo wonder Sajib wrote such verses, whenNow is that sad time of yearOctober turned my maple's leaves to gold;Or light or dark, or short or tall,See where at intervals the firefly's sparkSo closely knit are mind and brain,Such kings of shreds have wooed and won her,The big-lipped Sphinx, with bent perplexed brow,The face that Carlo Dolci drewThe fault's not mine, you understand:This one sits shivering in Fortune's smile,To him that hath, we are told,Touched with the delicate green of early May,Up from the dark the moon begins to creep;We often fail by searching far and wideWhat mortal knowsWhen friends are at your hearthside met,When from the tense chords of that mighty lyreWhen I was young and light of heartWide open and unguarded stand our gates,