#EnglishWriters
I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, l… Merciful love that tantalizes not, One—thoughted, never—wandering, gu… Unmasked, and being seen—without a… O! let me have thee whole,—all—all…
MOTHER of Hermes! and still you… May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores… Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian? or thy smile…
Old Meg she was a Gipsy, And liv’d upon the Moors: Her bed it was the brown heath tur… And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries…
Oft have you seen a swan superbly… And with proud breast his own whit… He slants his neck beneath the wat… So silently, it seems a beam of li… Come from the galaxy: anon he spor…
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbn… My sense, as though of hemlock I… Or emptied some dull opiate to the… One minute past, and Lethe-wards… ’Tis not through envy of thy happy…
As from the darkening gloom a silv… Upsoars, and darts into the easter… On pinions that nought moves but p… So fled thy soul into the realms a… Regions of peace and everlasting l…
Love in a hut, with water and a cr… Is—Love, forgive us!—cinders, ash… Love in a palace is perhaps at las… More grievous torment than a hermi… That is a doubtful tale from faery…
It keeps eternal whisperings aroun… Desolate shores, and with its migh… Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns,… Of Hecate leaves them their old s… Often 'tis in such gentle temper f…
Season of mists and mellow fruitfu… Close bosom-friend of the maturing… Conspiring with him how to load an… With fruit the vines that round th… To bend with apples the mossed cot…
Give me your patience, sister, whi… Exact in capitals your golden name… Or sue the fair Apollo and he wil… Rouse from his heavy slumber and i… Great love in me for thee and Poe…
Muse of my native land! loftiest… O first-born on the mountains! by… Of heaven on the spiritual air beg… Long didst thou sit alone in north… While yet our England was a wolfi…
Hither, hither, love — ‘Tis a shady mead — Hither, hither, love! Let us feed and feed! Hither, hither, sweet —
What though while the wonders of n… I cannot your light, mazy footstep… Nor listen to accents, that almost… Bless Cynthia’s face, the enthusi… Yet over the steep, whence the mou…
Where’s the Poet? Show him! show… Muses nine! that I may know him! ‘Tis the man, who with a man Is an equal, be he King, Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright, And the stars they glisten, gliste… Seeming with bright eyes to listen… For what listen they?