John Byrom

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow.

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

His eyes
Were with his heart. and that was far away.

His eyes
Were with his heart. and that was far away.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught read more

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?

In conversation avoid the extremes of forwardness and reserve.

In conversation avoid the extremes of forwardness and reserve.