We are what suns and winds and waters make us; The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills Fashion and win their nursling with their smiles. But where the land is dim from tyranny,...
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires; And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,...
I Leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more From the high terraces, at even-tide, To look supine into thy depths of sky, Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses...
Here, where precipitate Spring, with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms, expires, And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em,...
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires; And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,...
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass Like little ripples down a sunny river; Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.
'Do you remember me? or are you proud?' Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and look'd into my eyes. 'A yes, a yes to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be,...
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, Cut down and up again as blithe as ever; From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass Like little ripples in a sunny river.
Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea! A path forbidden me! Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds Upon the mountain-heads, How often we have watcht him laying down His brow, and dropt our own...
They say that every idle word Is numbered by the Omniscient Lord. O Parliament! 'tis well that He Endureth for Eternity, And that a thousand Angels wait To write them at thy inner gate.
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson, Come and share my haunch of venison. I have too a bin of claret, Good, but better when you share it. Tho' 'tis only a small bin, There's a stock of it within....
No, my own love of other years! No, it must never be. Much rests with you that yet endears, Alas! but what with me? Could those bright years o'er me revolve So gay, o'er you so fair,...
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: I warm'd both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Once, and once only, have I seen thy face, Elia! once only has thy tripping tongue Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left Impression on it stronger or more sweet....