Fear poems

 / page 357 of 454 /
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The Dispute

© Mikhail Lermontov

Once 'mid group of native mountains

  Hot dispute arose,

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The Princess (part 2)

© Alfred Tennyson

At break of day the College Portress came:

She brought us Academic silks, in hue

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The Prisoner: Pt 1

© Emily Jane Brontë

In the dungeon crypts idly did I stray,
Reckless of the lives wasting there away;
"Draw the ponderous bars; open, Warder stern!"
He dare not say me nay–the hinges harshly turn.

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To Leonardo

© Mary Darby Robinson

"Yes, LAURA, yes, pure as the virgin snow's
"That on the bosom of the whirlwind move,,
"For thee my faithful endless passion glows."

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The Widow's Home

© Mary Darby Robinson

Close on the margin of a brawling brook
That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a Cot;
O'ershadow'd by broad Alders. At its door
A rude seat, with an ozier canopy

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And as its Going

© Anna Akhmatova

And as it's going often at love's breaking,
The ghost of first days came again to us,
The silver willow through window then stretched in,
The silver beauty of her gentle branches.

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The Shepherd's Dog

© Mary Darby Robinson

I.A Shepherd's Dog there was; and he
Was faithful to his master's will,
For well he lov'd his company,
Along the plain or up the hill;

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The Poor Singing Dame

© Mary Darby Robinson

Beneath an old wall, that went round an old Castle,
For many a year, with brown ivy o'erspread;
A neat little Hovel, its lowly roof raising,
Defied the wild winds that howl'd over its shed:

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The Negro Girl

© Mary Darby Robinson

Dark was the dawn, and o'er the deep
The boist'rous whirlwinds blew;
The Sea-bird wheel'd its circling sweep,
And all was drear to view--
When on the beach that binds the western shore
The love-lorn ZELMA stood, list'ning the tempest's roar.

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The Mistletoe (A Christmas Tale)

© Mary Darby Robinson

This Farmer, as the tale is told--
Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!
His, was the wintry hour of life,
While summer smiled before his wife;
A contrast, rather form'd to cloy
The zest of matrimonial joy!

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The Lascar

© Mary Darby Robinson

I. "Another day, Ah! me, a day
"Of dreary Sorrow is begun!
"And still I loath the temper'd ray,
"And still I hate the sickly Sun!

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The Hermit of Mont-Blanc

© Mary Darby Robinson

High, on the Solitude of Alpine Hills,
O'er-topping the grand imag'ry of Nature,
Where one eternal winter seem'd to reign;
An HERMIT'S threshold, carpetted with moss,

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The Granny Grey, a Love Tale

© Mary Darby Robinson

The DAME was silent; for the Lover
Would, when she spoke,
She fear'd, discover
Her envious joke:
And she was too much charm'd to be
In haste,--to end the Comedy!

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The Fortune-Teller, a Gypsy Tale

© Mary Darby Robinson

STEPHEN had long in secret sigh'd;
And STEPHEN never was deny'd:
Now, LUBIN was a modest swain,
And therefore, treated with disdain:
For, it is said, in Love and War ,--
The boldest, most successful are!

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The Deserted Cottage

© Mary Darby Robinson

Who dwelt in yonder lonely Cot,
Why is it thus forsaken?
It seems, by all the world forgot,
Above its path the high grass grows,
And through its thatch the northwind blows
--Its thatch, by tempests shaken.

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The Alien Boy

© Mary Darby Robinson

'Twas on a Mountain, near the Western Main
An ALIEN dwelt. A solitary Hut
Built on a jutting crag, o'erhung with weeds,
Mark'd the poor Exile's home. Full ten long years

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The Adieu to Love

© Mary Darby Robinson

Nor do I dread thy vengeful wiles,
Thy soothing voice, thy winning smiles,
Thy trick'ling tear, thy mien forlorn,
Thy pray'r, thy sighs, thy oaths I scorn;
No more on ME thy arrows show'r,
Capricious Love­! I BRAVE THY POW'R.

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Stanzas Written under an Oak in Windsor Forest

© Mary Darby Robinson

"HERE POPE FIRST SUNG!" O, hallow'd Tree !
Such is the boast thy bark displays;
Thy branches, like thy Patron's lays,
Shall ever, ever, sacred be;
Nor with'ring storm, nor woodman's stroke,
Shall harm the POET'S favourite Oak.

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Satia te Sanguine

© Algernon Charles Swinburne

IF YOU loved me ever so little,
  I could bear the bonds that gall,
I could dream the bonds were brittle;
  You do not love me at all.

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Sonnet XXXVIII: Oh Sigh

© Mary Darby Robinson

Oh Sigh! thou steal'st, the herald of the breast,
The lover's fears, the lover's pangs to tell;
Thou bid'st with timid grace the bosom swell,
Cheating the day of joy, the night of rest!