Lawrence, of virtuous father, virtuous son Let foreign nations of their language boast Let me not to the marriage of true minds Like a musician that with flying finger Like as the culver on the bared bough
Like as a huntsman after weary chase Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore Long time a child, and still a child when years Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
MARY! I want a lyre with other strings Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay Methought I saw my late espoused saint Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour Most glorious Lord of life that on this day Much have I travelled in the realms of gold My lady's presence makes the roses red My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow Music and frankincense of flowers belong Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? . Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
NEEDS must I leave, and yet needs must I love No longer mourn for me when I am dead Nor can I not believe but that hereby Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame Not marble nor the gilded monuments Now while the long-delaying ash assumes
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room
O CALL not me to justify the wrong October's gold is dim-the forests rot
O ever skilled to wear the form we love!
O friend! I know not which way I must look . Oft in the after-days when thou and I. Oh blessing and delight of my young heart O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem Oh, it is pleasant with a heart at ease Oh, what a royalty of song should greet Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn O melancholy bird! a winter's day
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee One day as I unwarily did gaze
One day I wrote her name upon the strand O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright . O soft embalmer of the still midnight! O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Over the ground white snow, and in the air.
PITY refusing my poor love to feed. Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasures seem Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth
RISE, said the Master, come unto the feast. Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire
SAD soul, whom God resuming what He gave Schiller! that hour I would have wished to die Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned.
Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day
Sheathed is the river as it glideth by
Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest So, like a wanderer from the world of shades Some glory in their birth, some in their skill Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet Speed ye, warm honrs, along th' appointed path. Surprised by joy-impatient as the wind. Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train
TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not That time of year thou mayst in me behold Th' Assyrian King in peace with foul desire The bubble of the silver-springing waves. The crackling embers on the hearth are dead The day is gone and all its sweets are gone The doubt which ye misdeem, fair Love, is vain The expense of spirit in a waste of shame The glorious portrait of that Angel's face
The glorious image of the Maker's beauty
The grey-eyed morn was saddened with a shower The loveliest flowers the closest cling to earth. There are no colours in the fairest sky
There is an awful quiet in the air
There is a pleasure in poetic pains
There is strange music in the stirring wind They say that thou wert lovely on thy bier They talk of Time and of Time's galling yoke The soote season that bud and bloom forth brings The woman singeth at her spinning wheel The world is too much with us; late and soon Tired with all these, for restful death I cry. To me, fair friend, you never can be old . Too true it is my time of power was spent Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea.
WEARY with toil, I haste me to my bed Were I as base as is the lowly plain What guile is this that those her golden tresses What was't awakened first the untried ear When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes When in the chronicle of wasted time
When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never
When I consider how my light is spent
When I have borne in memory what has tamed
When I have fears that I may cease to be When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced When the vast heaven is dark with ominous clouds When to the sessions of sweet silent thought When some Beloveds, 'neath whose eyelids lay When we were idlers with the loitering rills While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way
Who will believe my verse in time to come.
Why is my verse so barren of new pride .
Wings have we, and as far as we can go
With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
With stammering lips and insufficient sound
YET life, you say, is life; we have seen and see You see this dog; it was but yesterday You that do search for every purling spring.
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & Co., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
« PreviousContinue » |