Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;
Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view
A fate more pleasing, a delight more true

A Farewell

© William Wordsworth

FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;

WHAT General has a good army in himself, has a good army;
He happy in himself, or she happy in herself, is happy,
But I tell you you cannot be happy by others, any more than you can
beget or conceive a child by others.

From The Original Draft Of The Poem To William Shelley

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

II.
This lament,
The memory of thy grievous wrong
Will fade...
But genius is omnipotent
To hallow...

Wenn Ich, Beseligt

© Heinrich Heine

When Im made happy by lovely kisses,

Lying so sweetly in your arms prisons,

The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Second

© William Wordsworth

THE Harp in lowliness obeyed;
And first we sang of the greenwood shade
And a solitary Maid;
Beginning, where the song must end,

Enoch Arden

© Alfred Tennyson

At length she spoke `O Enoch, you are wise;
And yet for all your wisdom well know I
That I shall look upon your face no more.'

The Flood of Years

© William Cullen Bryant

A MIGHTY Hand, from an exhaustless Urn,

Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years,

Disenchanted

© Augusta Davies Webster

Alas, I thought this forest must be true,

And would not change because of my changed eyes;

By occasion of the Young Prince his happy birth

© Henry King

At this glad Triumph, when most Poets use
Their quill, I did not bridle up my Muse
For sloth or less devotion. I am one
That can well keep my Holy-dayes at home;

The Statues

Tarry a moment, happy feet,
That to the sound of laughter glide!
O glad ones of the evening street,
Behold what forms are at your side!

Written in Milton's PARADISE LOST.

© Mather Byles

Had I, O had I all the tuneful Arts

Of lofty Verse; did ev'ry Muse inspire

The Shepherd's Week : Friday; or, The Dirge

© John Gay

Grubbinol.
Ah Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone,
From these sad plains all merriment is flown;
Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy cheer,
And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.

Song of Poplars

Shepherd, to yon tall poplars tune your flute:
Let them pierce, keenly, subtly shrill,
The slow blue rumour of the hill;
Let the grass cry with an anguish of evening gold,
And the great sky be mute.

The Old Manor House

An old house, crumbling half away, all barnacled and lichen-grown,
Of saddest, mellowest, softest grey,-with a grand history of its own-
Grand with the work and strife and tears of more than half a thousand years.