#EnglishWriters
DRAMATIS PERSONÃ Count Francesco Cenci. Giacomo, his Son. Bernardo, his Son. Cardinal Camillo.
The rude wind is singing The dirge of the music dead; The cold worms are clinging Where kisses were lately fed.
I weep for Adonais –he is dead! O, weep for Adonais! though our t… Thaw not the frost which binds so… And thou, sad Hour, selected from… To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscu…
Yet look on me—take not thine eyes… Which feed upon the love within mi… Which is indeed but the reflected… Of thine own beauty from my spirit… Yet speak to me—thy voice is as th…
And like a dying lady, lean and pa… Who totters forth, wrapp’d in a ga… Out of her chamber, led by the ins… And feeble wanderings of her fadin… The moon arose up in the murky Ea…
AWAY! the moor is dark beneath t… Rapid clouds have drunk the las… Away! the gathering winds will cal… And profoundest midnight shroud… Pause not! the time is past! Ever…
The fitful alternations of the rai… When the chill wind, languid as wi… Of its own heavy moisture, here an… Drives through the gray and beamle…
I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright I arise from dreams of thee,
'How beautiful this night! the bal… Which vernal zephyrs breathe in ev… Were discord to the speaking quiet… That wraps this moveless scene. H… Studded with stars unutterably bri…
Far, far away, O ye Halcyons of Memory, Seek some far calmer nest Than this abandoned breast! No news of your false spring
And said I that all hope was fled… That sorrow and despair were mine, That each enthusiast wish was dead… Had sank beneath pale Misery’s sh… Seest thou the sunbeam’s yellow gl…
Stern, stern is the voice of fate’… When accents of horror it breathes… Or compels us for aye bid adieu to… Where exists that loved friend to… ’Tis sterner than death o’er the s…
Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on… Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a differ… And ever changing, like a joyless…
Dear home, thou scene of earliest… The least of which wronged Memory… Bitterer than all thine unremember…
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry Hours, smile instead, For the Year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping,