#English
Is there another world for this fr… To warm with life and be itself ag… Something about me daily speaks th… And why should instinct nourish ho… 'Tis nature’s prophesy that such w…
Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet m… Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me Through the valley—depths of shade… Of bright and dark obscurity; Where the path has lost its way,
How oft on Sundays, when I’d time… My rambles led me to a gipsy’s cam… Where the real effigy of midnight… With tawny smoked flesh and tatter… Uncouth—brimmed hat, and weather—b…
A path, old tree, goes by thee cro… And through this little gate that… Against thy rifted trunk, what ste… Though but a lonely way, yet myste… Oer crowds of pastoral scenes reco…
When in summer thou walkest In the meads by the river, And to thyself talkest, Dost thou think of one ever— A lost and a lorn one
The infant april joins the spring And views its watery skye As youngling linnet trys its wing And fears at first to flye With timid step she ventures on
The wild duck startles like a sudd… And heron slow as if it might be c… The flopping crows on weary wings… And grey beard jackdaws noising as… The crowds of starnels whizz and h…
I wish I was where I would be, With love alone to dwell, Was I but her or she but me, Then love would all be well. I wish to send my thoughts to her
The dewdrops on every blade of gra… that I am obliged to stoop down as… and those sprinkled on the ivy—wov… hazels, whitethorns and maples are… down to feel if they were hard, bu…
These tiny loiterers on the barley… And happy units of a numerous herd Of playfellows, the laughing Summ… Mocking the sunshine on their glit… How merrily they creep, and run, a…
When first we hear the shy—come ni… They seem to mutter o’er their son… And, climb we e’er so soft the spi… All stops as if no bird was anywhe… The kindled bushes with the young…
Pretty swallow, once again Come and pass me in the rain. Pretty swallow, why so shy? Pass again my window by. The horsepond where he dips his wi…
Nature now spreads around in drear… A pall to cover all that summer kn… Yet in the poets solitary way Some pleasing objects for his prai… Somthing that makes him pause and…
O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!— The babe upon its mother’s breast, The bird upon its young, The heart asleep without a pain—
And what is Life? An hour-glass o… A mist retreating from the morning… A busy, bustling, still-repeated d… Its length? A minute’s pause, a m… And Happiness? A bubble on the st…