The body,
Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul,
4 lines
Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
8 lines, 2 comments
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?--
11 lines
Are there two things, of all which men possess,
That are so like each other and so near,
14 lines
Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
6 lines
Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
4 lines, 1 comment
As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,
That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood
11 lines
Whom should I choose for my Judge? the earnest, impersonal reader,
Who, in the work, forgets me and the world and himself!
7 lines
The Moon, how definite its orb!
Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze--
10 lines
When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt--
A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing
5 lines
Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn.
0 lines, 1 comment
Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;--
Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
7 lines
Like a lone Arab, old and blind,
Some caravan had left behind,
28 lines
Trochee trips from long to short;
From long to long in solemn sort
19 lines
A sunny shaft did I behold,
From sky to earth it slanted:
16 lines
The first seen in the season
Nitens et roboris expers
24 lines, 1 comment
Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!
How many Bards in city garret pent,
26 lines
Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk,
Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way;
14 lines
As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain
Where native Otter sports his scanty stream,
14 lines
We pledged our hearts, my love and I,
I in my arms the maiden clasping;
8 lines
"How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains!
16 lines, 1 comment
In stale blank verse a subject stale I send per post my Nightingale;
15 lines, 4 comments
Never, believe me, Appear the Immortals,
28 lines
Tranquillity! thou better name Than all the family of Fame!
34 lines
What tho' first, In years unseason'd, I attuned the lay
445 lines
'And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild Where Tell directed the avenging dart,
91 lines
'Be, rather than be call'd, a child of God,' Death whisper'd!--with assenting nod,
8 lines
'Tis sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way,
18 lines
'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane! (So call him, for so mingling blame with praise,
39 lines
'Twas my last waking thought, how it could be, That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st endure
58 lines
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