Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd, Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream, Under o'erhanging pines; the morning sun, On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,...
My Horse's feet beside the lake, Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay, Sent echoes through the night to wake, Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.
They are gone: all is still: Foolish heart, dost thou quiver? Nothing moves on the lawn but the quick lilac shade. Far up gleams the house, and beneath flows the river....
This sentence have I left behind: An aching body, and a mind Not wholly clear, nor wholly blind, Too keen to rest, too weak to find, That travails sore, and brings forth wind,...
Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare! Christ, some one says, was human as we are; No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan; ...
What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell? 'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry Stormily sweet, his Titan agony; It was the sight of that Lord Arundel ...
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame; All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame. Not here, O Apollo! Are haunts meet for thee. But, where Helicon breaks down...
In the deserted, moon-blanched street, How lonely rings the echo of my feet! Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, Silent and white, unopening down, Repellent as the world, but see,...
That son of Italy who tried to blow, Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, In his light youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show. ...
The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,...
The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,...
So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round Lay thickly strewn swords axes darts and spears Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown At Balder, whom no weapon pierc'd or clove:...
Far, far from here, The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay Among the green Illyrian hills; and there The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, And by the sea, and in the brakes....