What Is Life?
Resembles Life what once was held of Light, Too ample in itself for human sight? An absolute Self an element ungrounded All, that we see, all colours of all shade [Image]By encroach of darkness
The Dungeon
[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
Sonnet
To the River Otter Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West! How many various-fated years have past, What happy and what mournful hours, since last I skimm’d the smooth thin stone along thy
The Nightingale
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
The Presence Of Love
And in Life’s noisiest hour, There whispers still the ceaseless Love of Thee, The heart’s Self-solace and soliloquy. You mould my Hopes, you fashion me within ; And to the leading Love-throb in the
Despair
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
The Good, Great Man
“How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits If any man obtain that which he merits
A Tombless Epitaph
‘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
To Nature
It may indeed be fantasy when I Essay to draw from all created things Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings; And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie Lessons of love
Hexameters
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
To the Nightingale
Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel! How many Bards in city garret pent, While at their window they with downward eye Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell’d mud, And listen to the drowsy cry
On Donne's Poetry
”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.”
Reason
… Finally, what is Reason? You have often asked me ; and this is my Answer : Whene’er the mist, that stands ‘twixt God and thee, [Sublimates] to a pure transparency, That intercepts no
Epitaph
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.
Recollections Of Love
I How warm this woodland wild Recess! Love surely hath been breathing here ; And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks with faint caress, As if to have you