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....
Is it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes; ...
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...
A region desolate and wild. Black, chafing water: and afloat, And lonely as a truant child In a waste wood, a single boat: No mast, no sails are set thereon; It moves, but never moveth on:...
'Henri Heine', , 'tis here! The black tombstone, the name Carved there, no more! and the smooth, Swarded alleys, the limes Touch'd with yellow by hot Summer, but under them still...
Omit, omit, my simple friend, Still to inquire how parties tend, Or what we fix with foreign powers. If France and we are really friends, And what the Russian Czar intends, Is no concern of ours. ...
What mortal, when he saw, Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend, Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly: 'I have kept uninfring'd my nature's law; The inly-written chart thou gayest me...
Murmur of living! Stir of existence! Soul of the world! Make, oh make yourselves felt To the dying spirit of Youth. Come, like the breath of the spring. Leave not a human soul...
Not in sunk Spain's prolong'd death agony; Not in rich England, bent but to make pour The flood of the world's commerce on her shore; Not in that madhouse, France, from whence the cry...
A region desolate and wild, Black, chafing water: and afloat, And lonely as a truant child In a waste wood, a single boat: No mast, no sails are set thereon; It moves, but never moveth on:...