#Aphorism #Imagery #Metaphor
HEAR then the pride and knowledg… His sprit sail, fore sail, main sa… A poor frail man—God wot! I know… I know no greater sinner than Joh…
I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing, “Mercy, Pity, Peace Is the world’s release.” Thus he sung all day
WELCOME, 1 stranger, to this pl… Where joy doth sit on every bough, Paleness flies from every face; We reap not what we do not sow. Innocence doth like a rose
Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song?
Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a cr… In the age of gold,
LITTLE PHOEBUS came struttin… With his fat belly and his round c… What is it you would please to hav… Ho! Ho! I won’t let it go at only so and s…
THE BELL struck one, and shook… The graves give up their dead: fai… Walk’d by the castle gate, and loo… A hollow groan ran thro’ the drear… She shriek’d aloud, and sunk upon…
Sound the flute! Now it’s mute. Birds delight Day and night. Nightingale
I travell’d thro’ a land of men, A land of men and women too; And heard and saw such dreadful th… As cold earth—wanderers never knew… For there the Babe is born in joy
The shadowy Daughter of Urthona s… When fourteen suns had faintly jou… His food she brought in iron baske… Crown’d with a helmet and dark hai… A quiver with its burning stores,…
Dear mother, dear mother, the chur… But the ale—house is healthy and p… Besides I can tell where I am use… Such usage in Heaven will never d… But if at the church they would gi…
Awake, awake, my little boy! Thou wast thy mother’s only joy; Why dost thou weep in thy gentle s… Awake! thy father does thee keep. `O, what land is the Land of Drea…
‘Nought loves another as itself, Nor venerates another so, Nor is it possible to thought A greater than itself to know. ’And, father, how can I love you
Whether on Ida’s shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceas’d; Whether in Heav’n ye wander fair,
The wild winds weep And the night is a—cold; Come hither, Sleep, And my griefs infold: But lo! the morning peeps