#EnglishWriters #Romantic
If, for silver or for gold, You could melt ten thousand pimple… Into half a dozen dimples, Then your face we might behold, Looking, doubtless, much more snug…
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav’ring spr… Friend and associate of this clay! To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant fli… No more with wonted humour gay,
The Devil return’d to hell by two… And he stay’d at home till five; When he dined on some homicides do… And a rebel or so in an Irish ste… And sausages made of a self-slain…
Is thy face like thy mother’s, my… Ada! sole daughter of my house and… When last I saw thy young blue ey… And then we parted,—not as now we… But with a hope.—
There is a pleasure in the pathles… There is a rapture on the lonely s… There is society, where none intru… By the deep sea, and music in its… I love not man the less, but Natu…
THE isles of Greece! the isles o… Where burning Sappho loved and su… Where grew the arts of war and pea… Where Delos rose, and Phoebus spr… Eternal summer gilds them yet,
Woman! experience might have told… That all must love thee who behold… Surely experience might have taugh… Thy firmest promises are nought: But, placed in all thy charms befo…
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of… Bright as thy mother’s in their hu… Those rosy lips, whose dimples pla… And smile to steal the heart away, Recall a scene of former joy,
In law an infant, and in years a b… In mind a slave to every vicious j… From every sense of shame and virt… In lies an adept, in deceit a fien… Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a c…
‘There is a tide in the affairs of… Which,—taken at the flood,’—you kn… And most of us have found it now a… At least we think so, though but f… The moment, till too late to come…
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear… The friendships of childhood, thou… The love which you felt was the lo… Nor less the affection I cherish’… But Friendship can vary her gentl…
White as a white sail on a dusky s… When half the horizon 's clouded a… Fluttering between the dun wave an… Is Hope’s last gleam in Man’s ext… Her anchor parts; but still her sn…
Good plays are scarce: So Moore writes farce. The poet’s fame grows brittle— We knew before That Little’s Moore,
When a man hath no freedom to figh… Let him combat for that of his nei… Let him think of the glories of G… And get knock’d on the head for hi… To do good to mankind is the chiva…
LIV But now I will begin my poem. 'Ti… Perhaps a little strange, if not q… That from the first of Cantos up… I’ve not begun what we have to go…