Down in a valley, by a forest's side, Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves, I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride, As if the lilies grew to be his slaves;...
A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady, That well could tune his pipe, and deftly play The nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy, Methought I saw, upon a summer's day, Take up a little satyr in a wood,...
Thy soul shall find itself alone Alone of all on earth, unknown The cause, but none are near to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness, for then...
A mask, a perpetual natural disguiser of herself, Concealing her face, concealing her form, Changes and transformations every hour, every moment, Falling upon her even when she sleeps.
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night--- Ten to make and the match to win--- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,...
I stood by the unvintageable sea Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray; The long red fires of the dying day Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;...
VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her hushand, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarime), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine. ...
Now being on the eve of death, discharged From every mortal hope and earthly care, I questioned how my soul might best employ This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind,...
Her eyes under their lashes were blue pools Fringed round with lilies; her bright hair unfurled Clothed her as sunshine clothes the summer world. Her robes were gauzes - gold and green and gules,...
Nurse not your grief, nor make obsequious moan When I have shed this flesh I love so well, Nor slowly toll the dull heart-bruising knell, Nor carve my name in customary stone;...
Up the hillside, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen; Summon out the might of men! Like a lion growling low, Like a night-storm rising slow, Like the tread of unseen foe;...
I heard the ancient forest talk, (Its voice was like a wandering breeze): It said, "Who is it comes to walk Along my paths when, white as chalk, The moon hangs o'er my sleeping trees?...
Who is it calling by the darkened river Where the moss lies smooth and deep, And the dark trees lean unmoving arms, Silent and vague in sleep, And the bright-heeled constellations pass...
When blood-root blooms and trillium flowers Unclasp their stars to sun and rain, My heart strikes hands with winds and showers And wanders in the woods again.
I am a memory of cosmogony, That first great hour of travail when the voice Of God called suns and systems from the void; I am the dream He dreams of that last day...