#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury
How, my dear Mary,—are you critic… (For vipers kill, though dead) by… That you condemn these verses I h… Because they tell no story, false… What, though no mice are caught by…
What was the shriek that struck F… As it sate on the ruins of time th… Hark! it floats on the fitful blas… And breathes to the pale moon a fu… It is the Benshie’s moan on the s…
PEOPLE of England, ye who toil… Who reap the harvests which are no… Who weave the clothes which your o… And for your own take the inclemen… Who build warm houses . . .
Wake the serpent not’lest he Should not know the way to go,— Let him crawl which yet lies sleep… Through the deep grass of the mead… Not a bee shall hear him creeping,
Dearest, best and brightest, Come away, To the woods and to the fields! Dearer than this fairest day Which, like thee to those in sorro…
Wealth and dominion fade into the… Of the great sea of human right an… When once from our possession they… But love, though misdirected, is a… The things which are immortal, and…
Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on… Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a differ… And ever changing, like a joyless…
My faint spirit was sitting in the… Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hind a… For the brooks, my love. Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the…
From the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river—girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb Listening my sweet pipings.
I weep for Adonais –he is dead! O, weep for Adonais! though our t… Thaw not the frost which binds so… And thou, sad Hour, selected from… To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscu…
PART 1. A Sensitive Plant in a garden gre… And the young winds fed it with si… And it opened its fan-like leaves… And closed them beneath the kisses…
Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on t… Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a differ… And ever changing, like a joyless…
Death is here and death is there, Death is busy everywhere, All around, within, beneath, Above is death—and we are death. II.
49 Go thou to Rome,—at once the Para… The grave, the city, and the wilde… And where its wrecks like shattere… And flowering weeds, and fragrant…
The sun is set; the swallows are a… The bats are flitting fast in the… The slow soft toads out of damp co… And evening’s breath, wandering he… Over the quivering surface of the…
