Time, Real And Imaginary
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
Brockley Coomb
Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795 With many a pause and oft reverted eye I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
The Pains Of Sleep
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,
The Netherlands (fragment)
Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green; Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp: Farmhouses that at anchor seem’d in the inland sky The fog-transfixing Spires Water,
Song
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
Metrical Feet
Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks, strong foot!, yet ill able Ever to come up with Dactyl’s trisyllable. Iambics march from short to long.
Love
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
The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner
Part I It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. ‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? The bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, And I
To Asra
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
On A Ruined house In A Romantic Country
And this reft house is that the which he built, Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil’d, Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild, Squeak, not unconscious of their father’s guilt.
This Lime-Tree Bower, My Prison
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
About The Nightingale
From a letter from STC to Wordsworth after writing The Nightingale: In stale blank verse a subject stale I send per post my Nightingale; And like an honest bard, dear Wordsworth, You’ll tell me
To The River Otter
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
Zapolya
Song (Act II, Scene I, lines 65-80) 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,
The Lime-tree Bower my Prison [Addressed to Charles Lamb, o
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