1. The transport of a fierce and monstrous gladness Spread through the multitudinous streets, fast flying Upon the winds of fear; from his dull madness The starveling waked, and died in joy; the dying,...
1. The starlight smile of children, the sweet looks Of women, the fair breast from which I fed, The murmur of the unreposing brooks, And the green light which, shifting overhead,...
1. What thoughts had sway o'er Cythna's lonely slumber That night, I know not; but my own did seem As if they might ten thousand years outnumber Of waking life, the visions of a dream...
1. The old man took the oars, and soon the bark Smote on the beach beside a tower of stone; It was a crumbling heap, whose portal dark With blooming ivy-trails was overgrown;...
1. Over the utmost hill at length I sped, A snowy steep: - the moon was hanging low Over the Asian mountains, and outspread The plain, the City, and the Camp below,...
1. Beside the dimness of the glimmering sea, Weaving swift language from impassioned themes, With that dear friend I lingered, who to me So late had been restored, beneath the gleams...
1. So we sate joyous as the morning ray Which fed upon the wrecks of night and storm Now lingering on the winds; light airs did play Among the dewy weeds, the sun was warm,...
1. 'I sate beside the Steersman then, and gazing Upon the west, cried, "Spread the sails! Behold! The sinking moon is like a watch-tower blazing Over the mountains yet; - the City of Gold...
1. 'That night we anchored in a woody bay, And sleep no more around us dared to hover Than, when all doubt and fear has passed away, It shades the couch of some unresting lover,...
1. The rose that drinks the fountain dew In the pleasant air of noon, Grows pale and blue with altered hue - In the gaze of the nightly moon; For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,...
1. Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die, Perchance were death indeed! - Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn...
1. How, my dear Mary, are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true?...
1. Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest crest Of that foul, knotted, many-headed worm Which rends our Mother's bosom - Priestly Pest! Masked Resurrection of a buried Form!
1. A cat in distress, Nothing more, nor less; Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, As I am a sinner, It waits for some dinner To stuff out its own little belly.