#English
Old Meg she was a Gipsy, And liv’d upon the Moors: Her bed it was the brown heath tur… And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries…
O! were I one of the Olympian twe… Their godships should pass this in… That when a man doth set himself i… After some beauty veiled far away, Each step he took should make his…
Spenser! a jealous honourer of thi… A forester deep in thy midmost tre… Did last eve ask my promise to ref… Some English that might strive th… But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalr… For large white plumes are dancing… Not like the formal crest of latte… But bending in a thousand graceful… So graceful, that it seems no mort…
UNFELT unheard, unseen, I’ve left my little queen, Her languid arms in silver slumber… Ah! through their nestling touch, Who—-who could tell how much
As late I rambled in the happy fi… What time the skylark shakes the t… From his lush clover covert;—when… Adventurous knights take up their… I saw the sweetest flower wild nat…
There is a charm in footing slow a… Where patriot battle has been foug… There is a pleasure on the heath w… Where mantles grey have rustled by… There is a joy in every spot made…
Where’s the Poet? Show him! show… Muses nine! that I may know him! ‘Tis the man, who with a man Is an equal, be he King, Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Small, busy flames play through th… And their faint cracklings o’er ou… Like whispers of the household god… A gentle empire o’er fraternal sou… And while, for rhymes, I search a…
When I have fears that I may ceas… Before my pen has glean’d my teemi… Before high-piled books, in charac… Hold like rich garners the full ri… When I behold, upon the night’s s…
Fame, like a wayward girl, will st… To those who woo her with too slav… But makes surrender to some though… And dotes the more upon a heart at… She is a Gypsy,-will not speak to…
Fresh morning gusts have blown awa… From my glad bosom,—now from gloom… I mount for ever—not an atom less Than the proud laurel shall conten… No! by the eternal stars! or why s…
This pleasant tale is like a littl… The honied lines so freshly interl… To keep the reader in so sweet a p… So that he here and there full-hea… And oftentimes he feels the dewy d…
ST. AGNES’ EVE—Ah, bitter chi… The owl, for all his feathers, was… The hare limp’d trembling through… And silent was the flock in woolly… Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers,…
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arm… Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the la… And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arm…