#EnglishWriters
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!
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffu… With rain, where thick the crocus… Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent… The bridge is cross’d, and slow we…
When I shall be divorced, some te… From this poor present self which… When youth has done its tedious va… Of passions that for ever ebb and… Shall I not joy youth’s heats are…
Yes! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us th… Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping fl…
The evening comes, the fields are… The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths! the ringing wai…
Affections, Instincts, Principles… Impulse and Reason, Freedom and… So men, unravelling God’s harmoni… Rend in a thousand shreds this lif… Vain labour! Deep and broad, wher…
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
'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…
Vain is the effort to forget. Some day I shall be cold, I know, As is the eternal moon-lit snow Of the high Alps, to which I go: But ah, not yet! not yet!
Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too! Her mirth the world required;
The thoughts that rain their stead… Like stars on life’s cold sea, Which others know, or say they kno… They never shone for me. Thoughts light, like gleams, my sp…
“Yourselves and your fellows ye know not; and me, The mateless, the one, will ye know? Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast, My longing, my s...
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. What shall be said o’er Wordswort…
The Castle Down the Savoy valleys sounding, Echoing round this castle old, 'Mid the distant mountain-chalets Hark! what bell for church is toll…
What poets feel not, when they mak… A pleasure in creating, The world, in its turn, will not t… Pleasure in contemplating.