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'Twas now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Boötes, only, seem'd to roll His Arctic charge around the Pole; While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep: At...
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not today; it froze, and blows, and snows, And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well: Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: "Pipe a song about a Lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;"...
I made a posie, while the day ran by: Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie My life within this band. But time did beckon to the flowers, and they By noon most cunningly did steal away And wither'd in my hand.
who makes much of a miracle?
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it; when the meadows laugh...
Without a stone to mark the spot, And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot, Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?
[LATIN VERSION OF THE EPITAPH IN GRAY'S ELEGY.] Hic sinu fessum caput hospitali Cespitis dormit juvenis, nec illi Fata ridebant, popularis ille Nescius aurae. Musa non vultu genus arroganti Rustica natum grege despicata, Et suum tristis puerum notavit Sollicitudo.
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight; Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar, My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs, And works His sovereign will.
If sometimes in the haunts of men Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again The semblance of thy gentle shade:...
Welcome, red and roundy sun, Dropping lowly in the west; Now my hard day's work is done, I'm as happy as the best. Joyful are the thoughts of home, Now I'm ready for my chair, So, till morrow-morning's come, Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
When first we hear the shy-come nightingales, They seem to mutter oer their songs in fear, And, climb we eer so soft the spinney rails, All stops as if no bird was anywhere.
In broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white, As a schoolboy's paper kite. In broad daylight, yesterday, I read a poet's mystic lay; And it seemed to me at most As a phantom, or a ghost.
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears; Why thus destroy thine own repose, And dig the source of future tears?
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river. And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or never more! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest crest Of that foul, knotted, many-headed worm Which rends our Mother's bosom--Priestly Pest! Masked Resurrection of a buried Form! Thy country's curse is on thee!
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness everywhere!
It was a bright and cheerful afternoon, Towards the end of the sunny month of June, When the north wind congregates in crowds The floating mountains of the silver clouds From the horizon--and the stainless sky Opens beyond them like eternity.
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago -- And now she turns Her perfect Face Upon the World below...
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, My sinful earth these rebel powers array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost...
GRANDMOTHER's mother: her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less; Girlish bust, but womanly air; Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; Lips that lover has never kissed; Taper fingers and slender wrist; Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; So they painted the little maid.
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright, Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light, Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.
Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend: Not with those toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.