#EnglishWriters
Why, when the World’s great mind Hath finally inclin’d, Why, you say, Critias, be debatin… Why, with these mournful rhymes Learn’d in more languid climes,
Again I see my bliss at hand; The town, the lake are here. My Marguerite smiles upon the str… Unalter’d with the year. I know that graceful figure fair,
We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be. I bade it keep the world away, And grow a home for only thee; Nor fear’d but thy love likewise g…
In the deserted, moon-blanched str… How lonely rings the echo of my fe… Those windows, which I gaze at, f… Silent and white, unopening down, Repellent as the world,—but see,
Weary of myself, and sick of askin… What I am, and what I ought to be… At this vessel’s prow I stand, wh… Forwards, forwards, o’er the starl… And a look of passionate desire
'Twas August, and the fierce sun… Smote on the squalid streets of B… And the pale weaver through his wi… In Spitalfields, looking thrice d… I met a preacher there I knew, an…
I ask not that my bed of death From bands of greedy heirs be free… For these besiege the latest breat… Of fortune’s favoured sons, not me… I ask not each kind soul to keep
The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fa… Upon the straits; on the French c… Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of… Glimmering and vast, out in the tr…
Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses Hem me round everywhere; A vague dejection Weighs down my soul.
God knows it, I am with you. If t… Those virtues, priz’d and practis’… But priz’d, but lov’d, but eminent… Man’s fundamental life: if to desp… The barren optimistic sophistries
AS the kindling glances, Queen-like and clear, Which the bright moon lances From her tranquil sphere At the sleepless waters
I too have suffer’d: yet I know She is not cold, though she seems… She is not cold, she is not light; But our ignoble souls lack might. She smiles and smiles, and will no…
We, O Nature, depart, Thou survivest us! this, This, I know, is the law. Yes! but more than this, Thou who seest us die
Was it a dream? We sail’d, I thou… Martin and I, down the green Alpi… Border’d, each bank, with pines; t… On the wet umbrage of their glossy… On the red pinings of their forest…
Through the black, rushing smoke-b… Thick breaks the red flame; All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame. Not here, O Apollo!