#English
Reader! what soul that laoves a ve… The spring return, nor glow like y… Hear the quick birds, and see the… Nor long to utter his melodious wi… This more than ever leaps into the…
Robin and his merry men : Lived just like the birds; They had almost as many tracks as… : And whistles and songs as words. Up they were with the earliest sig…
The moist and quiet morn was scarc… When Ariadne in her bower was wak… Her eyelids still were closing, an… But indistinctly yet a little bird… That in the leaves o’erhead, waiti…
It flows through old hushed Egypt… Like some grave mighty thought thr… And times and things, as in that v… Keeping along it their eternal sta… Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shep…
We, the Fairies, blithe and antic… Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep u… Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Ye brave, enduring Englishmen, Who dash through fire and flood, And spend with equal thoughtlessne… Your money and your blood, I sing of that black season,
There is May in books forever; May will part from Spenser never; May’s in Milton, May’s in Prior, May’s in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; May’s in all the Italian books:—
Robin Hood’s mother, these twelve… Has been gone from her earthly hom… And Robin has paid, he scarce kne… A sum for a noble tomb. The church-yard lies on a woody hi…
SLEEP breathes at last from out… My little patient boy; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day’s annoy. I sit me down, and think
Huzza, my boys! our friends the D… Our good old friends, and burst th… Aye, and have done it without bloo… Like men, to sense as well as free… The moment, I’ll be sworn, that O…
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe inc… Awoke one night from a deep dream… And saw, within the moonlight in h… Making it rich, and like a lily in… An angel writing in a book of gold…
It lies before me there, and my ow… Stirs its thin outer threads, as t… The living head I stood in honour… Talking of lovely things that conq… Perhaps he pressed it once, or und…
Open the window, and let the air Freshly blow upon face and hair, And fill the room, as it fills the… With the breath of the rain’s swee… Hark! the burthen, swift and prone…
I have been reading Pomfret’s “Ch… A pretty kind of—sort of—kind of t… Not much a verse, and poem none at… Yet, as they say, extremely natura… And yet I know not. There’s an ar…