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Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I Know 'Tis But a Dream, Yet Feel More Anguish (Fragment)

I know ‘tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish
  Than if ’twere Truth. It has been often so:
  Must I die under it? Is no one near?
  Will no one hear these stifled groans and wake me?

Autres oeuvres par Samuel Taylor Coleridge...
Song

Tho’ veiled in spires of myrtle-wr… Love is a sword that cuts its shea… And thro’ the clefts, itself has m… We spy the flashes of the Blade! But thro’ the clefts, itself has m…
The Good, Great Man

For shame, dear friend, renounce t… What would’st thou have a good gre… Place? titles? salary? a gilded ch… Or throne of corses which his swor… Greatness and goodness are not mea…
The Nightingale

A Conversation Poem, April, 1798 No cloud, no relique of the sunken… Distinguishes the West, no long t… Of sullen light, no obscure trembl… Come, we will rest on this old mos…
The Foster Mother’s Tale. a Dramatic Fragment

Ter. But that entrance, Selma? Sel. Can no one hear? It is a per… Ter. No one. Sel. My husband’s father told it… Poor old Sesina—angels rest his s…
To C. Lloyd, on His Proposing to Domesticate With the Author

A mount, not wearisome and bare an… But a green mountain variously up-… Where o’er the jutting rocks soft… Or colored lichens with slow oozin… Where cypress and the darker yew s…
Improvisatore, The

Scene—A spacious drawing-room, wi… Katharine. What are the words? Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improv… to ask of you, Sir ; it is that yo… sweetly.
This Lime

Well, they are gone, and here must… This lime-tree bower my prison! I… Beauties and feelings, such as wou… Most sweet to my remembrance even… Had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness!…
Lines Suggested by the Last Words of Berengarius. Ob. Anno Dom. 1088

No more ‘twixt conscience staggeri… Soon shall I now before my God ap… By him to be acquitted, as I hope… By him to be condemned, as I fear… REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE
Fragment 49: The Netherlands

Water and windmills, greenness, I… Willows whose Trunks beside the s… Of their own higher half, and will… Farmhouses that at anchor seem’d—i… The fog-transfixing Spires—
Sonnet: to the River Otter

Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet… How many various-fated years have… What happy and what mournful hours… I skimm’d the smooth thin stone al… Numbering its light leaps! yet so…
Frost at Midnight

The Frost performs its secret min… Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s… Came loud—and hark, again! loud as… The inmates of my cottage, all at… Have left me to that solitude, whi…
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Sonnet XI. to Sheridan

It was some spirit, Sheridan! tha… O’er thy young mind such wildly-va… My soul hath marked thee in her sh… Thy temples with Hymettian flowre… And sweet thy voice, as when o’er…
Constancy to an Ideal Object

Since all that beat about in Natu… Or veer or vanish; why should’st t… The only constant in a world of ch… O yearning Thought! that liv’st b… Call to the Hours, that in the di…
Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath

This Sycamore, oft musical with b… Such tents the Patriarchs loved!… May all its agèd boughs o’er—canop… The small round basin, which this… Keeps pure from falling leaves! L…
Fragment 6: The Moon, how definite its orb!

The Moon, how definite its orb! Yet gaze again, and with a steady… 'Tis there indeed,—but where is it… It is suffused o’er all the sapphi… Trees, herbage, snake—like stream,…



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