How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time!
How many bards gild the lapses of time! A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy,-I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit
Epistle To My Brother George
Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewildered, and my mind o’ercast With heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thought No spherey strains by me could e’er be caught From the blue
To Sleep
O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine: O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close In
Give Me Women, Wine, and Snuff
GIVE me women, wine, and snuff Untill I cry out “hold, enough!” You may do so sans objection Till the day of resurrection: For, bless my beard, they aye shall be My beloved Trinity.
To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses
As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert;-when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields; I saw the sweetest flower
To Homer
Standing aloof in giant ignorance, Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, As one who sits ashore and longs perchance To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. So thou wast blind; but then the
Fill For Me A Brimming Bowl
Fill for me a brimming bowl And in it let me drown my soul: But put therein some drug, designed To Banish Women from my mind: For I want not the stream inspiring That
To Ailsa Rock
Hearken, thou craggy ocean-pyramid, Give answer by thy voice-the sea-fowls’ screams! When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams? When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid? How long is’t since the mighty
This Living Hand
This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou
To My Brother George
Many the wonders I this day have seen: The sun, when first he kissed away the tears That filled the eyes of Morn;-the laurelled peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean;- The
Written On The Day That Mr Leigh Hunt Left Prison
What though, for showing truth to flattered state, Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he, In his immortal spirit, been as free As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. Minion of grandeur!
If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d, And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet Fetter’d, in spite of pained loveliness; Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d, Sandals more interwoven and
His Last Sonnet
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art! – Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their
On The Sea
It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often ’tis in such gentle temper
Endymion: Book II
O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: For others, good or bad, hatred and tears Have