Loading...
en
English Español Français Italiano

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

When Hope But Made Tranquillity Be Felt (Fragment)

When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt—
  A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing
  But made Tranquillity a conscious Thing—
  And wheeling round and round in sportive coil
  Fann’d the calm air upon the brow of Toil—

Other works by Samuel Taylor Coleridge...
About the Nightingale

From a letter from STC to Wordsw… In stale blank verse a subject sta… I send per post my Nightingale; And like an honest bard, dear Wor… You’ll tell me what you think, my…
Fragment

The body, Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul… The Soul’s self-symbol, its image… Its own yet not itself—
Youth and Age

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms stray… Where Hope clung feeding, like a… Both were mine! Life went a—mayin… With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young!
Dejection: an Ode

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…
Monody on the Death of Chatterton

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…
The Blossoming of the Solitary Date

Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks are the Thrones of Frost, through the absence of objects to reflect the rays. ‘What no one with us shares, seems scarce our own.’ ...
Answer to a Child’s Question

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…
What If You Slept...

What if you slept And what if In your sleep You dreamed And what if
Fancy in Nubibus, Or the Poet in the Clouds

O! it is pleasant with a heart at… Just after sunset, or by moonlight… To make the shifting clouds be wha… Or let the easily persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness issuing f…
To C. Lloyd, on His Proposing to Domesticate With the Author

A mount, not wearisome and bare an… But a green mountain variously up-… Where o’er the jutting rocks soft… Or colored lichens with slow oozin… Where cypress and the darker yew s…
The Lime

Well, they are gone, and here must… This lime-tree bower my prison! I… Beauties and feelings, such as wou… Most sweet to my remembrance even… Had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness!…
To the Nightingale

Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philom… How many Bards in city garret pen… While at their window they with do… Mark the faint lamp-beam on the ke… And listen to the drowsy cry of W…
Duty Surviving Self

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…
Sonnet VIII. to Mercy

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…
To an Unfortunate Woman, Whom the Author Had Known in the Days of Her Innocence

Myrtle leaf, that ill besped Pinest in the gladsome ray, Soiled beneath the common tread Far from thy protecting spray! When the partridge o’er the sheaf



Top