#EnglishWriters
Yet, Freedom, yet, thy banner, to… Streams like a thunder-storm again… A glorious people vibrated again The lightning of the nations: Lib… From heart to heart, from tower to…
I went into the deserts of dim sle… That world which, like an unknown… Bounds this with its recesses wide…
Death! where is thy victory? To triumph whilst I die, To triumph whilst thine ebon wing Enfolds my shuddering soul? O Death! where is thy sting?
When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead — When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow’s glory is shed. When the lute is broken,
I stood upon a heaven-cleaving tur… Which overlooked a wide Metropoli… And in the temple of my heart my… Lay prostrate, and with parted lip… The dust of Desolations [altar] h…
Thy look of love has power to calm The stormiest passion of my soul; Thy gentle words are drops of balm In life’s too bitter bowl; No grief is mine, but that alone
Sweet star, which gleaming o’er th… Through fleecy clouds of silvery r… Spanglet of light on evening’s sha… Which shrouds the day-beam from th… Lighting the hour of sacred love;…
Thou living light that in thy rain… Clothest this naked world; and ove… And Earth and air, and all the sh… In peopled darkness of this wondro… The Spirit of thy glory dost diff…
My thoughts arise and fade in soli… The verse that would invest them m… Like moonlight in the heaven of sp… How beautiful they were, how firm… Flecking the starry sky like woven…
Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets’ food is love and fame: If in this wide world of care Poets could but find the same With as little toil as they,
Bright ball of flame that through… Silently takest thine aethereal wa… And with surpassing glory dimm’st… Twinkling amid the dark blue depth… Unlike the fire thou bearest, soon…
Hail to thee, Cambria! for the un… Which from thy wilds even now meth… Chasing the clouds that roll in wr… And tightening the soul’s laxest n… True mountain Liberty alone may h…
No, Music, thou art not the ‘food… Unless Love feeds upon its own sw… Till it becomes all Music murmurs…
49 Go thou to Rome,—at once the Para… The grave, the city, and the wilde… And where its wrecks like shattere… And flowering weeds, and fragrant…
Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale, To bathe this burning brow. Moonbeam, why art thou so pale, As thou walkest o’er the dewy dale… Where humble wild-flowers grow?
