#Romantic
Friends, whom she lookt at blandly… And her white wrist above it, gem—… Were arguing with Pentheusa: she… Report of Creon’s death, whom yea… She listened to, well—pleas’d; and…
The Year’s twelve daughters had i… Of measured pace tho’ varying mien… Some froward, some sedater, some a… For festival, some reckless of att… The snow had left the mountain—top…
Yes, in this chancel once we sat a… O Dorothea! thou wert bright with… Freshness like Morning’s dwelt up… While here and there above the lev… Above the housings of the village…
Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful e…
MANY love music but for music’s… Many because her touches can awake Thoughts that repose within the br… And rise to follow where she loves… What various feelings come from da…
Stand close around, ye Stygian se… With Dirce in one boat conveyed! Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old and she a shade.
There is delight in singing, tho’… Beside the singer; and there is de… In praising, tho’ the praiser sit… And see the prais’d far off him, f… Shakspeare is not our poet, but th…
COME, Sleep! but mind ye! if you… The little girl that struck me at… By Jove! I would not give you hal… For all your poppy—heads and all y…
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But Oh, who ever felt as I! No longer could I doubt him true;
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson, Come and share my haunch of veniso… I have too a bin of claret, Good, but better when you share it… Tho’ 'tis only a small bin,
THERE is a mountain and a wood b… Where the lone shepherd and late b… Morning and noon and eventide repa… Between us now the mountain and th… Seem standing darker than last yea…
Phraortes! where art thou? The flames were panting after us,… Before the Gods, who heard nor pr… Temples had sunk to earth, and oth… O’er riven altars broke
In Clementina’s artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me? Lucilla asks, if that be all,
With much ado you fail to tell The requisites for writing well; But, what bad writing is, you quit… Have proved by every line you writ…
BLYTHE bell, that calls to brid… Tolls deep a darker day; The very shower that feeds the flo… Weeps also its decay.
