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This Chasm, Sweet, upon my life I mention it to you, When Sunrise through a fissure drop The Day must follow too. If we demur,...
I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? And that I was a maiden Queen Guarded by an Angel mild: Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!
My love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
The moon has a face like the clock in the hall; She shines on thieves on the garden wall, On streets and fields and harbour...
Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distrest And left of love, are crown'd. When once the lover's rose is dead Or laid aside forlorn, Then willow-garlands, 'bout the...
When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut, Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs? When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes;...
The frog half fearful jumps across the path, And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath; My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive, Till past,--and then the cricket sings more strong, And...
Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark,...
Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts, Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame; Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts, History is but the shadow of their shame, Art...
If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee. If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
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!
"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet-- Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it?
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.
As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert;—when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields; I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose;...
The morning road is thronged with merry boys Who seek the water for their Sunday joys; They run to seek the shallow pit, and wade And dance about the water in the shade.
Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind, Thy country's friend, but more of human kind. Oh, born to arms! oh, worth in youth approved! Oh, soft humanity, in age beloved! For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear, And the...
The sinking sun is taking leave, And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve, While huddling clouds of purple dye Gloomy hang the western sky. Crows crowd croaking over head, Hastening to the woods to bed. Cooing sits the lonely dove, Calling home her absent love.
Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its...
If the foolish, call them "flowers" -- Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants "Classify" them It is just as well! Those who read the...
I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle, Or paring of paradisaical fruit, lovely in...
The fir trees taper into twigs and wear The rich blue green of summer all the year, Softening the roughest tempest almost calm And offering shelter ever still and warm To the small path that towels underneath, Where loudest winds--almost...
Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing; Where in the whitethorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush.
Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf Than that I may not disappoint myself, That in my action I may soar as high As I can now discern with this clear eye.
If poisonous minerals, and if that tree Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned, alas, why should I be? Why should intent or reason, born in me, Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?