#RhymedStanza
Very true, the linnets sing Sweetest in the leaves of spring: You have found in all these leaves That which changes and deceives, And, to pine by sun or star,
THERE is a mountain and a wood b… Where the lone shepherd and late b… Morning and noon and eventide repa… Between us now the mountain and th… Seem standing darker than last yea…
Against the groaning mast I stand… The Atlantic surges swell, To bear me from my native land And Zoë's wild farewell. From billow upon billow hurl’d
HERE, ever since you went abroad… If there be change no change I se… I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walk’d by me. Yes; I forgot; a change there is—
MILD is the parting year, and sw… The odour of the falling spray; Life passes on more rudely fleet, And balmless is its closing day. I wait its close, I court its glo…
Zoe: Changed? very true, O Thero… Theron: It would at least have be… To hold a moment back from me the… You let recoil thus sharply or my… Not long ago, not very long, you o…
THE TONGUE of England, that w… Have spoken and will speak, were p… Hereafter, but two mighty men stan… Above the flight of ages, two alon… One crying out,
THE DREAMY rhymer’s measur’d s… Falls heavy on our ears no more; And by long strides are left behin… The dear delights of woman—kind, Who win their battles like their l…
Stand close around, ye Stygian se… With Dirce in one boat conveyed! Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old and she a shade.
BLYTHE bell, that calls to brid… Tolls deep a darker day; The very shower that feeds the flo… Weeps also its decay.
MY hopes retire; my wishes as bef… Struggle to find their resting—pla… The ebbing sea thus beats against… The shore repels it; it returns ag…
Twenty years hence my eyes may gro… If not quite dim, yet rather so, Still yours from others they shall… Twenty years hence. Twenty years hence though it may h…
Thou hast not rais’d, Ianthe, suc… In any breast as thou hast rais’d… No wandering meteor now, no marshy… Leads on my steps, but lofty, but… And, if thou chillest me, as chill…
From you, Ianthe, little troubles… Like little ripples down a sunny r… Your pleasures spring like daisies… Cut down, and up again as blithe a…
Sophocles: Thou goest then, and l… Aeschylos: Nay, say not so. Whose is the hand that now is pres… A hand I may not ever press again… What glorious forms hath it brough…