Samuel Coleridge

All look and likeness caught from earth All accident of kin and birth, Had pass’d away. There was no trace Of aught on that illumined face, Uprais’d beneath the rifted stone But of one

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, With the old Moon in her arms ; And I fear, I fear, My Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm. Ballad of Sir Patrick

Unchanged within, to see all changed without, Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. Yet why at others’ Wanings should’st thou fret? Then only might’st thou feel a just regret, Hadst

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls

Ungrateful he, who pluck’d thee from thy stalk, Poor faded flow’ret! on his careless way; Inhal’d awhile thy odours on his walk, Then onward pass’d and left thee to decay. Ah! melancholy emblem! had

As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood, That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank Of its wide base controls the fronting bank,

(Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire) My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown With white-flower’d Jasmin, and the broad-leav’d

Now as Heaven is my Lot, they’re the Pests of the Nation! Wherever they can come With clankum and blankum ‘Tis all Botheration, & Hell & Damnation, With fun, jeering Conjuring Sky-staring, Loungering, And

When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing But made Tranquillity a conscious Thing And wheeling round and round in sportive coil Fann’d the calm air

Its mother being tethered near it Poor little Foal of an oppressиd race! I love the languid patience of thy face: And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, And clap thy ragged

The first seen in the season Nitens et roboris expers Turget et insolida est: et spe delectat. – Ovid, Metam. [xv.203]. Thy smiles I note, sweet early Flower, That peeping from thy rustic bower

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC, The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair- The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing- And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And

With many a pause and oft reverted eye I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wild-wood melody: Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed May all its agйd boughs o’er-canopy The small round basin, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long

Scene A spacious drawing-room, with music-room adjoining. Katharine. What are the words? Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improvisatore ; here he comes. Kate has a favour To ask of you, Sir ; it is

Where true Love burns Desire is Love’s pure flame; It is the reflex of our earthly frame, That takes its meaning from the nobler part, And but translates the language of the heart.

Notus in fratres animi paterni. Hor. Carm. lib. II.2. A blessйd lot hath he, who having passed His youth and early manhood in the stir And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, With

Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no No question was asked me it could not be so! If the life was the question, a thing sent to try And

Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest Rose Peep’d at the chamber-window. We could hear At silent noon, and eve, and early morn, The Sea’s faint murmur. In the open air Our Myrtles

I know ’tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish Than if ’twere Truth. It has been often so: Must I die under it? Is no one near? Will no one hear these stifled

My pensive SARA! thy soft cheek reclined Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown With white-flower’d Jasmin, and the broad-leav’d Myrtle, (Meet emblems they

On the wide level of a mountain’s head, (I knew not where, but ’twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out-spread, Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, It hath not been my use to pray With moving lips or bended knees ; But silently, by slow degrees, My spirit I to Love compose,

Tho’ veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, Love is a sword that cuts its sheath, And thro’ the clefts, itself has made, We spy the flashes of the Blade! But thro’ the clefts, itself has

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o’er again that happy

Are there two things, of all which men possess, That are so like each other and so near, As mutual Love seems like to Happiness? Dear Asra, woman beyond utterance dear! This Love which

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost Beauties and feelings, such as would have been Most sweet to my remembrance even when age Had

Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West! How many various-fated years have passed, What happy and what mournful hours, since last I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Numbering its light

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost Beauties and feelings, such as would have been Most sweet to my remembrance even when age Had

[from his play Osorio, later called Remorse] Song (Act V, scene i) And this place our forefathers made for man! This is the process of our Love and Wisdom, To each poor brother who

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! You see the

I have experienc’d The worst, the World can wreak on me the worst That can make Life indifferent, yet disturb With whisper’d Discontents the dying prayer I have beheld the whole of all, wherein

‘Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane! (So call him, for so mingling blame with praise, And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, Masking his birth-name, wont to character His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,) ‘Tis

William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea! Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table ; Place it on table or desk ; and

”With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots, Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots ; Rhyme’s sturdy cripple, fancy’s maze and clue, Wit’s forge and fire-blast, meaning’s press and screw.”

Stop, Christian passer-by : Stop, child of God, And read, with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seem’d he O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T.

Like a lone Arab, old and blind, Some caravan had left behind, Who sits beside a ruin’d well, Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell; And now he hangs his ag{‘e}d head aslant, And