Fragment 4: As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood
Fragment 4: As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood
As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,
That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood
Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank
Of its wide base controls the fronting bank,
(By the slant current's pressure scoop'd away
The fronting bank becomes a foam-piled bay)
High in the Fork the uncouth Idol knits
His channel'd Brows; low murmurs stir by fits
And dark below the horrid Faquir sits;
An Horror from its broad Head's branchy wreath
Broods o'er the rude Idolatry beneath—
Miscellany
Other poems by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (read randomly)
With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,
Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots;
Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue,
If I had but two little wings
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
When they did greet me Father, sudden Awe
Weigh'd down my spirit! I retired and knelt
Seeking the throne of grace, but inly felt
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown
For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strai …
What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?
Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain?
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees;
Underneath an old oak tree
There was of swine a huge company
That grunted as they crunched the mast:
