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Fair

Rest

A rest remaineth; is then rest so good?
The hope of weariness, a promise sweet
To labouring souls, but wherefore rest in Heaven?

Deeper than any thought of man,
Sweeter than any dream of man,

The tower-room

There is a room serene and fair,
All palpitant with light and air;
Free from the dust, world’s noise and fuss -
God’s Tower-room in each of us.

Oh! many a stair our feet must press,

La Bella Donna della Mia Mente

Oscar Wilde

My limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For, calling on my Lady's name
My lips have now forgot to sing.

O Linnet in the wild-rose brake

Nature and Art

TO MY FRIEND CHARLES BOOTH NETTLETON

I

The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair,
Once on a time fell upon evil days.

A Thousand Martyrs I Have Made

A Thousand Martyrs I Have Made

A thousand Martyrs I have made,
All sacrific'd to my desire;
A thousand Beauties have betray'd,
That languish in resistless Fire.

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