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....
Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses Hem me round everywhere; A vague dejection Weighs down my soul. Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countless Prospects unroll themselves,...
Where, under Loughrigg, the stream Of Rotha sparkles, the fields Are green, in the house of one Friendly and gentle, now dead, Wordsworth's son-in-law, friend, Four years since, on a mark'd...
Coldly, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent; hardly a shout...
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused With rain, where thick the crocus blows, Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,...
Upon the glistening leaden roof Of the new Pile, the sunlight shines; The stream goes leaping by. The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof; 'Mid bright green fields, below the pines,...
Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem Rather to patience prompted, than that prowl Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud, France, fam'd in all great arts, in none supreme....
Artist, whose hand, with horror wing'd, hath torn From the rank life of towns this leaf: and flung The prodigy of full-blown crime among Valleys and men to middle fortune born,...
'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here, And ease from shame, and rest from fear. There's nothing can dismarble now The smoothness of that limpid brow. But is a calm like this, in truth,...