#English
’Tis well you think me truly one o… Whose sense discerns the lovelines… For surely as I feel the bird tha… Behind the leaves, or dawn as it u… Or the rich bee rejoicing as he go…
Robin and his merry men : Lived just like the birds; They had almost as many tracks as… : And whistles and songs as words. Up they were with the earliest sig…
You strange, astonished-looking, a… Dreary-mouthed, gaping wretches of… Gulping salt-water everlastingly, Cold-blooded, though with red your… And mute, though dwellers in the r…
It was the pleasant season yet, When the stones at cottage doors Dry quickly, while the roads are w… After the silver showers. The green leaves they looked green…
It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind, Thus to be topped with leaves;—to… Of honour-shaded thought,—an influ… As from great nature’s fingers, an… With her old, sacred, verdurous iv…
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe inc… Awoke one night from a deep dream… And saw, within the moonlight in h… Making it rich, and like a lily in… An angel writing in a book of gold…
Robin Hood’s mother, these twelve… Has been gone from her earthly hom… And Robin has paid, he scarce kne… A sum for a noble tomb. The church-yard lies on a woody hi…
Open the window, and let the air Freshly blow upon face and hair, And fill the room, as it fills the… With the breath of the rain’s swee… Hark! the burthen, swift and prone…
Paupertas onus visa est grave. Cold blows the wind, and while the… Bursts trembling from my swollen e… The rain’s big drop, quick meets i… And on my naked bosom flies!
Robin Hood is an outlaw bold Under the greenwood tree; Bird, nor stag, nor morning air Is more at large than he. They sent against him twenty men,
Amazing monster! that, for aught… With the first sight of thee didst… For ever stare! O flat and shocki… Grimly divided from the breast bel… Thou that on dry land horribly dos…
I have been reading Pomfret’s “Ch… A pretty kind of—sort of—kind of t… Not much a verse, and poem none at… Yet, as they say, extremely natura… And yet I know not. There’s an ar…
There is May in books forever; May will part from Spenser never; May’s in Milton, May’s in Prior, May’s in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; May’s in all the Italian books:—
How sweet it were, if without feeb… Or dying of the dreadful beauteous… An angel came to us, and we could… To see him issue from the silent a… At evening in our room, and bend o…
The moist and quiet morn was scarc… When Ariadne in her bower was wak… Her eyelids still were closing, an… But indistinctly yet a little bird… That in the leaves o’erhead, waiti…