#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury
Emily, A ship is floating in the harbour… A wind is hovering o’er the mounta… There is a path on the sea’s azure… No keel has ever plough’d that pat…
Flourishing vine, whose kindling c… Beneath the autumnal sun, none tas… For thou dost shroud a ruin, and b… The rotting bones of dead antiquit…
Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on t… Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a differ… And ever changing, like a joyless…
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;…
'Tis the terror of tempest. The r… Are flickering in ribbons within t… From the stark night of vapours th… And when lightning is loosed, like… She sees the black trunks of the w…
Returning from its daily quest, my… Changed thoughts and vile in thee… It grieves me that thy mild and ge… Those ample virtues which it did i… Has lost. Once thou didst loathe…
Is not to-day enough? Why do I pe… Into the darkness of the day to co… Is not to-morrow even as yesterday… And will the day that follows chan… Few flowers grow upon thy wintry w…
And the cloven waters like a chasm… Stood, and received him in its mig… And led him through the deep’s u… He went in wonder through the path… Of his great Mother and her humid…
My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth… Upon the silver waves of thy sweet… And thine doth like an angel sit Beside a helm conducting it,
Tell me, thou Star, whose wings o… Speed thee in thy fiery flight, In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now? II.
Silence! Oh, well are Death and… Three brethren named, the guardian… Of one abyss, where life, and trut… Are swallowed up—yet spare me, Sp… Until the sounds I hear become my…
And earnest to explore within—arou… The divine wood, whose thick green… Tempered the young day to the sigh… Up the green slope, beneath the fo… With slow, soft steps leaving the…
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,
The death-bell beats!— The mountain repeats The echoing sound of the knell; And the dark Monk now Wraps the cowl round his brow,
’Twas dead of the night when I sa… One glimmering lamp was expiring a… Around the dark tide of the tempes… Along the wild mountains night-rav… They bodingly presaged destruction…
