Pensive, at eve, on the hard world… And my poor heart was sad: so at t… I gazed—and sighed, and sighed—for… Eve saddens into night! Mine eyes… With tearful vacancy, the dampy gr…

If dead, we cease to be ; if total… Swallow up life’s brief flash for… As summer-gusts, of sudden birth a… Whose sound and motion not alone d… But are their whole of being! If…

Once more, sweet stream! with slow… I bless thy milky waters cold and… Escaped the flashing of the noonti… With one fresh garland of Pierian… (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink…

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.

Nay, dearest Anna! why so grave? I said, you had no soul, ‘tis true… For what you are, you cannot have: ’Tis I, that have one since I fir… I have heard of reasons manifold

Do you ask what the birds say? Th… The linnet, and thrush say, ‘I lo… In the winter they’re silent, the… What it says I don’t know, but it… But green leaves and blossoms, and…

Unchanged within, to see all chang… Is a blank lot and hard to bear, n… Yet why at others’ Wanings should… Then only might’st thou feel a jus… Hadst thou withheld thy love or hi…

With many a pause and oft reverted… I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet… Warble in shade their wild-wood me… Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soot… Up scour the startling stragglers…

The Scene a desolate Tract in la… lying on the ground; to her enter… Fam. Sister! sisters! who sent yo… Slau. [to Fire.] I will whisper i… Fire. No! no! no!

Now as Heaven is my Lot, they’re… Wherever they can come With clankum and blankum 'Tis all Botheration, & Hell… With fun, jeering

Stretched on a mouldered Abbey’s… Where ruining ivies propped the ru… Her folded arms wrapping her tatte… Had Melancholy mused herself to s… The fern was pressed beneath her h…

How long will ye round me be swell… O ye blue-tumbling waves of the se… Not always in caves was my dwellin… Nor beneath the cold blast of the… Thro’ the high-sounding halls of…

'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,

Lady. If Love be dead (and you aver it!… Tell me, Bard! where Love lies bu… Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born,