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The evening comes, the fields are still.
121 lines
Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses
90 lines, 2 comments
We were apart; yet, day by day,
I bade my heart more constant be.
42 lines
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
44 lines
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
74 lines
We cannot kindle when we will
The fire which in the heart resides;
36 lines, 2 comments
"Not by the justice that my father spurn'd,
Not for the thousands whom my father slew,
127 lines
Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d'un
monde?--OBERMANN.
350 lines
Set where the upper streams of Simois flow
Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood;
24 lines, 1 comment
Hark! ah, the nightingale--
The tawny-throated!
32 lines, 1 comment
Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!
16 lines
Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask--Thou smilest and art still,
14 lines, 2 comments
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
98 lines, 7 comments
Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
143 lines, 2 comments
The Master stood upon the mount, and taught.
He saw a fire in his disciples’ eyes;
59 lines
THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts,
Thick breaks the red flame.
58 lines
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,
Thick breaks the red flame;
52 lines, 1 comment
Far, far from here,
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
34 lines
'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear.
25 lines, 3 comments
Even in a palace, life may be led well!
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
14 lines
Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
307 lines
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;
Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!
250 lines
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
210 lines, 2 comments
Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn-evening. The field
208 lines
How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
240 lines
And the first grey of morning fill'd the east,
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.
892 lines
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
14 lines
What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
35 lines
A region desolate and wild.
Black, chafing water: and afloat,
16 lines
In his cool hall, with haggard eyes,
The Roman noble lay;
44 lines, 1 comment
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