All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus - More had not Alcinous! Henry Austin Dobson More Quotes by Henry Austin Dobson More Quotes From Henry Austin Dobson Time goes, you say? Ah, no! alas, time stays, we go. Henry Austin Dobson passing-by time life All passes, Art alone Enduring stays to us; The Bust out-lasts the throne,-- The coin, Tiberius. Henry Austin Dobson thrones coins art O, Love's but a dance, Henry Austin Dobson couple dance play Love comes unseen; we only see it go. Henry Austin Dobson seen-and-unseen short-love unseen Old books, old wine, old Nankin blue;- Henry Austin Dobson wine strong book The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white is stays for ever, Their red it never dies; But Phyllida, my Phillida! Her colour comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,-- It wavers to a rose. Henry Austin Dobson eye white beauty In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar,-O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes! When her brooch she forgets 'Tis to show her new collar; In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar! Henry Austin Dobson coquette rose school He is a Patron who looks down, / With careless eyes on men who drown; / But if they chance to reach the land, / Encumbers them with helping hand Henry Austin Dobson eye artist men Fame is a food that dead men eat, I have no stomach for such meat. Henry Austin Dobson cooking food men In merest prudence men should teach . . . Henry Austin Dobson angel wings men What ye have been ye still shall be, When we are dust the dust among, O yellow flowers! Henry Austin Dobson flowers dust yellow sympathy I intended an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet. Henry Austin Dobson intended turned sonnet poetry Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour - let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou hast paid thy utmost blessing. Henry Austin Dobson things look blessing night Not as ours the books of old - Things that steam can stamp and fold; Not as ours the books of yore - Rows of type, and nothing more. Henry Austin Dobson old more nothing things
