A Soliloquy Of The Full Moon, She Being In A Mad Passion
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
Fears In Solitude
A green and silent spot, amid the hills, A small and silent dell! O’er stiller place No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, Which hath a gay
When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt (fragment)
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
The Moon, how definite its orb! (fragment)
The Moon, how definite its orb! Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze ‘Tis there indeed, but where is it not? It is suffused o’er all the sapphire Heaven, Trees, herbage, snake-like stream,
To A Young Ass
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
Psyche
The butterfly the ancient Grecians made The soul’s fair emblem, and its only name But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade Of mortal life! For in this earthly frame Ours is the reptile’s
To A Primrose
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
Life
As late I journey’d o’er the extensive plain Where native Otter sports his scanty stream, Musing in torpid woe a Sister’s pain, The glorious prospect woke me from the dream. At every step it
Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni
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
Glycine's Song
A sunny shaft did I behold, From sky to earth it slanted: And poised therein a bird so bold Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted! He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll’d Within that
Work Without Hope
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
Aplolgia Pro Vita Sua
The poet in his lone yet genial hour Gives to his eyes a magnifying power : Or rather he emancipates his eyes From the black shapeless accidents of size In unctuous cones of kindling
Lines
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
Something Childish, But Very Natural
If I had but two little wings And were a little feathery bird, To you I’d fly, my dear! But thoughts like these are idle things, And I stay here. But in my sleep
Inscription For A Fountain On A Heath
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