#EnglishWriters #Romantic
If that high world, which lies bey… Our own, surviving Love endears; If there the cherish’d heart be fo… The eye the same, except in tears… How welcome those untrodden sphere…
When, to their airy hall, my fathe… Shall call my spirit, joyful in th… When, poised upon the gale, my for… Or, dark in mist, descend the moun… Oh! may my shade behold no sculptu…
‘Away, away, your fleeting arts May now betray some simpler hearts… And you will smile at their believ… And they shall weep at your deceiv… ANSWER TO THE FOREGO…
If sometimes in the haunts of men Thine image from my breast may fad… The lonely hour presents again The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour
So, we’ll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as lovin… And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath,
Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! Adieu, thou palace rarely enter’d! Adieu, ye mansions where I’ve ven… Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs…
Beneath Blessington’s eyes The reclaimed Paradise Should be free as the former from… But if the new Eve For an Apple should grieve,
Dear Doctor, I have read your pla… Which is a good one in its way, Purges the eyes, and moves the bow… And drenches handkerchiefs like to… With tears that, in a flux of grie…
These locks, which fondly thus ent… In firmer chains our hearts confin… Than all th’ unmeaning protestatio… Which swell with nonsense love ora… Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve…
One struggle more, and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in t… One last long sigh to love and the… Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now
The Assyrian came down like the w… And his cohorts were gleaming in p… And the sheen of their spears was… When the blue wave rolls nightly o… Like the leaves of the forest when…
It is the hour when from the bough… The nightingale’s high note is hea… It is the hour when lovers’ vows Seem sweet in every whisper’d word… And gentle winds, and waters near,
'I had rather be a kitten, and cry… Than one of these same metre balla… ‘Such shameless bards we have; and… There are as mad, abandon’d critic… Still must I hear?—shall hoarse F…
No specious splendour of this ston… Endears it to my memory ever; With lustre only once it shone, And blushes modest as the giver. Some, who can sneer at friendship’…
The world is full of orphans: firs… Who are so in the strict sense of… (But many a lonely tree the loftie… Than others crowded in the forest’… The next are such as are not doome…