Poem by Walter Savage Landor

* * *

I cannot tell, not I, why she
Awhile so gracious, now should be
So grave: I cannot tell you why
The violet hangs its head awry.
It shall be cull'd, it shall be worn,
In spite of every sign of scorn,
Dark look, and overhanging thorn.

1. Soon, O Ianthe! Life Is O'er
2. Dirce
3. Corinna, from Athens, to Tanagra
4. Past Ruin'd Ilion Helen Lives
5. Tell Me Not Things Past All Belief

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