#EnglishWriters
’Twas in that mellow season of the… When the hot sun singes the yellow… Till they be gold,—and with a broa… The Moon looks down on Ceres and… When more abundantly the spider we…
The curse of Adam, the old curse… Though I inherit in this feverish… Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and… And fruitless thought, in Care’s… Yet more sweet honey than of bitte…
How bravely Autumn paints upon th… The gorgeous fame of Summer which… Hues of all flow’rs, that in their… Trophied in that fair light whereo… Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet ros…
I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly queen, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench,
By ev’ry sweet tradition of true h… Graven by Time, in love with his… By all old martyrdoms and antique… Wherein Love died to be alive the… Yea, by the sad impression on the…
I Remember, I Remember I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn;
Love, dearest Lady, such as I wou… Lives not within the humor of the… Not being but an outward phantasy, That skims the surface of a tinted… Else it would wane with beauty, an…
Giver of glowing light! Though but a god of other days, The kings and sages Of wiser ages Still live and gladden in thy geni…
Far above the hollow Tempest, and its moan, Singeth bright Apollo In his golden zone,— Cloud doth never shade him,
A Pathetic Ballad Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war’s alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his leg… So he laid down his arms.
(The Argument: Lycus, detained by Circe in her magical dominion, is beloved by a Water Nymph, who, desiring to render him immortal, has recourse to the Sorceress. Circe gives her an inc...
One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly,
Along the Woodford road there com… Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding’s nea… Struggles along, drawn by a pair o… With Reverend Mr. Crow and six s… Who ever and anon declare their jo…
It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses— We pluck’d them as we pass’d! That churlish season never frown’d
I gaze upon a city,— A city new and strange,— Down many a watery vista My fancy takes a range; From side to side I saunter,