#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury #XVIIICentury
O thou wild fancy, check thy wing!… Those thin white flakes, those pur… Nor there with happy spirits speed… Bathed in rich amber-glowing flood… Nor in yon gleam, where slow desce…
'Tis the middle of night by the ca… And the owls have awakened the cro… Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew.
Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given… She sent the gentle sleep from He… That slid into my soul.
Underneath an old oak tree There was of swine a huge company That grunted as they crunched the… For that was ripe, and fell full f… Then they trotted away, for the wi…
The body, Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul… The Soul’s self-symbol, its image… Its own yet not itself—
On the wide level of a mountain’s… (I knew not where, but 'twas some… Their pinions, ostrich-like, for s… Two lovely children run an endless… A sister and a brother!
Near the lone pile with ivy oversp… Fast by the rivulet’s sleep-persua… Where 'sleeps the moonlight’ on yo… O humbly press that consecrated gr… For there does Edmund rest, the l…
Beneath the blaze of a tropical su… Frost, through the absence of obje… with us shares, seems scarce our o… The best belov’d, who loveth me th… is for the heart, what the support…
When faint and sad o’er sorrow’s d… Slow journeys onward poor misfortu… When fades each lovely form by fan… And inly pines the self-consuming… (No scourge of scorpions in thy ri…
Oft, oft, methinks, the while with… I breathe, as from the heart, thy… And dedicated bame, I hear A promise and a mystery, A pledge of more than passing life…
How warm this woodland wild Reces… Love surely hath been breathing he… And this sweet bed of heath, my de… Swells up, then sinks with faint c… As if to have you yet more near.
Not always should the tear’s ambro… Roll its soft anguish down thy fur… Not always heaven-breathed tones o… Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Sco… Who with proud words of dear-loved…
Well! If the Bard was weather—wis… The grand old ballad of Sir Patri… This night, so tranquil now, will… Unroused by winds, that ply a busi… Than those which mould yon cloud i…
As late I lay in Slumber’s shadow… With wetted cheek and in a mourner… I saw the sainted form of FREE… She spake! not sadder moans the au… 'Great Son of Genius! sweet to me…
