#EnglishWriters
Through the black, rushing smoke-b… Thick breaks the red flame; All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame. Not here, O Apollo!
If, in the silent mind of One all… At first imagin’d lay The sacred world; and by processio… From those still deeps, in form an… Seasons alternating, and night and…
Hark! ah, the nightingale— The tawny-throated! Hark, from that moonlit cedar what… What triumph! hark!—what pain! O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
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
I must not say that thou wert true… Yet let me say that thou wert fair… And they that lovely face who view… They will not ask if truth be ther… Truth—what is truth? Two bleeding…
The Castle Down the Savoy valleys sounding, Echoing round this castle old, 'Mid the distant mountain-chalets Hark! what bell for church is toll…
Foil’d by our fellow-men, depress’… We leave the brutal world to take… And, Patience! in another life, w… The world shall be thrust down, an… And will not, then, the immortal a…
Thou, who dost dwell alone; Thou, who dost know thine own; Thou, to whom all are known, From the cradle to the grave,— Save, O, save!
WHO taught this pleading to unpra… Who hid such import in an infant’s… Who lent thee, child, this meditat… What clouds thy forehead, and fore… Lo! sails that gleam a moment and…
Crouch’d on the pavement close by… A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and to… A babe was in her arms, and at her… A girl; their clothes were rags, t… Some labouring men, whose work lay…
Because thou hast believ’d, the wh… Stand never idle, but go always ro… Not by their hands, who vex the pa… Mov’d only; but by genius, in the… Of all its chafing torrents after…
'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…
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Gree… Long since, saw Byron’s struggle… But one such death remain’d to com… The last poetic voice is dumb— We stand to-day by Wordsworth’s t…
LAUGH, 1 my Friends, and withou… Lightly quit what lightly came: Rich to-morrow as to-day Spend as madly as you may. I, with little land to stir,
AND the first grey of morning fil… And the fog rose out of the Oxus… But all the Tartar camp along the… Was hush’d, and still the men were… Sohrab alone, he slept not; all ni…
