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Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I Know 'Tis But a Dream, Yet Feel More Anguish (Fragment)

I know ‘tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish
  Than if ’twere Truth. It has been often so:
  Must I die under it? Is no one near?
  Will no one hear these stifled groans and wake me?

Other works by Samuel Taylor Coleridge...
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (text of 1834). Part I

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glitte… Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? The Bridegroom’s doors are opened…
 1
Frost at Midnight

The Frost performs its secret min… Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s… Came loud—and hark, again! loud as… The inmates of my cottage, all at… Have left me to that solitude, whi…
 1
The Good, Great Man

For shame, dear friend, renounce t… What would’st thou have a good gre… Place? titles? salary? a gilded ch… Or throne of corses which his swor… Greatness and goodness are not mea…
Imitated From the Welsh

If, while my passion I impart, You deem my words untrue, O place your hand upon my heart, Feel how it throbs for you! Ah no! reject the thoughtless clai…
The Aeolian Harp

My pensive SARA! thy soft cheek… Thus on mine arm, most soothing sw… To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’… With white-flower’d Jasmin, and t… (Meet emblems they of Innocence a…
Ode to Sara, in Answer to a Letter From Bristol

Nor travels my meand’ring eye The starry wilderness on high; Nor now with curious sight I mark the glow-worm as I pass, Move with 'green radiance’ thro’ t…
On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country

And this reft house is that the wh… Lamented Jack! And here his malt… Cautious in vain! These rats that… Squeak, not unconscious of their f… Did ye not see her gleaming thro’…
Something Childish, but Very Natural

If I had but two little wings And were a little feathery bird, To you I’d fly, my dear! But thoughts like these are idle t… And I stay here.
Songs of the Pixies

Whom the untaught Shepherds call Pixies in their madrigal, Fancy’s children, here we dwell: Welcome, Ladies! to our cell. Here the wren of softest note
To the River Otter

Dear native brook! wild streamlet… How many various-fated years have… What happy and what mournful hours… I skimmed the smooth thin stone al… Numbering its light leaps! Yet so…
The Keepsake

The tedded hay, the first-fruits o… The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in… Show summer gone, ere come. The f… Sheds its loose purple bells, or i… Or when it bends beneath the up-sp…
Imitated From Ossian

The stream with languid murmur cre… In Lumin’s flowery vale: Beneath the dew the Lily weeps Slow-waving to the gale. ‘Cease, restless gale! ’it seems t…
To a Friend Who Had Declared His Intention of Writing No More Poetry

Dear Charles! whilst yet thou wer… That Genius plunged thee in that… High Castalie: and (sureties of t… That Pity and Simplicity stood by… And promised for thee that thou sh…
The Rose

As late each flower that sweetest… I pluck’d, the Garden’s pride! Within the petals of a Rose A sleeping Love I 'spied. Around his brows a beamy wreath
Home

'Tis sweet to him, who all the wee… Through city-crowds must push his… To stroll alone through fields and… And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. And sweet it is, in summer bower,



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