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.
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 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.
When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never
When I behold thee, blameless Williamson
When I behold yon arch magnificent
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.
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 .
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