#EnglishWriters
Ah me! those old familiar bounds! That classic house, those classic… My pensive thought recalls! What tender urchins now confine, What little captives now repine,
The world is with me, and its many… Its woes—its wants—the anxious hop… That wait on all terrestrial affai… The shades of former and of future… Forboding fancies and prophetic te…
It is not death, that sometime in… This eloquent breath shall take it… That sometime these bright stars,… In sunlight to the sun, shall set… That this warm conscious flesh sha…
I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly queen, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench,
What is a mine—a treasury—a dower— A magic talisman of mighty power? A poet’s wide possession of the ea… He has the enjoyment of a flower’s… Before its budding—ere the first r…
I had a gig-horse, and I called h… Because on Sundays for a little j… He was so fast and showy, quite a… Although he sometimes kicked and s… I had a chaise, and christened it…
It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the Time of Roses,— We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frown’d
I Saw old Autumn in the misty mor… Stand shadowless like Silence, li… To silence, for no lonely bird wou… Into his hollow ear from woods for… Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn…
The sun was slumbering in the Wes… My daily labors past; On Anna’s soft and gentle breast My head reclined at last; The darkness closed around, so dea…
Look how the lark soars upward and… Turning a spirit as he nears the s… His voice is heard, but body there… To fix the vague excursions of the… So, poets’ songs are with us, tho’…
No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day… When every loyal lover tasks his w… His simple truth in studious rhyme… And to his mistress dear his hopes…
Is there a bitter pang for love re… O God! The dead love doth not cos… Than the alive, the loving, the be… Not yet, not yet beyond all hopes… Would I were laid
I gaze upon a city,— A city new and strange,— Down many a watery vista My fancy takes a range; From side to side I saunter,
It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses— We pluck’d them as we pass’d! That churlish season never frown’d
Lady, wouldst thou heiress be To Winters cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free, Thou dost still lock up thy heart;… Thou that shouldst outlast the sno…