Love poems
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Duty Surviving Self-Love
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Unchanged within, to see all changed without,
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt.
Yet why at others' Wanings should'st thou fret ?
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret,
To William Wordsworth
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Friend of the Wise ! and Teacher of the Good !
Into my heart have I received that Lay
More than historic, that prophetic Lay
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
An Indian at the Burial-Place of his Fathers.
© William Cullen Bryant
It is the spot I came to seek,--
My fathers' ancient burial-place
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot--I know it well--
Of which our old traditions tell.
Beauty. Part II
© Henry James Pye
Of all that Nature's rural prospects yield,
The chrystal fountain and the flow'ry field,
The Storm
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Within the pale blue haze above,
Some pitchy shreds took size and form,
The Lime-tree Bower my Prison [Addressed to Charles Lamb, o
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
Time, Real And Imaginary
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
On the wide level of a mountain's head,
(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out-spread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,
The Threshold Stone
© Roderic Quinn
WHEN I went to live in the little house,
That stands on the hilltop alone,
What touched me most of all
Was neither roof nor wall,
The Nightingale
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
Ballad
© Eustache Deschamps
Here is no flower, no violet e'er so sweet,
Nor tree, nor brier, whatever charms they show, Beauty nor worth where all perfections meet,
No man, nor woman, though her fate bestow
Bright locks, fair skin, cheeks that like roses glow,
Or wise or foolish nought by nature made,
Which length of time shall age not, and degrade, But the fierce hunter death shall hold in chase, And which, when old, the world will not upbraid: Old age ends all, in youth alone is grace.
Two Visions
© Alfred Austin
The curtains of the Night were folded
Over suspended sense;
So that the things I saw were moulded
I know not how nor whence.
Gratiana Dancing and Singing
© Richard Lovelace
See! with what constant motion
Even and glorious, as the sunne,
Gratiana steeres that noble frame,
Soft as her breast, sweet as her voyce,
That gave each winding law and poyze,
And swifter then the wings of Fame.
The Captivity
© Oliver Goldsmith
FIRST PROPHET.
AIR.
Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.
Fears In Solitude
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
[Image][Image][Image][Image][Image] May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away
In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.
The First Part: Sonnet 12 - Ah! burning thoughts, now let me take some rest,
© William Henry Drummond
Ah! burning thoughts, now let me take some rest,
And your tumultuous broils a while appease;
To A Young Ass
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Its mother being tethered near itPoor little Foal of an oppress?d race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
Beowulf's Expedition To Heort
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thus then, much care-worn,
The son of Healfden
A Misunderstanding
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Then I were a fool so to dream
So, friend, grant your pardon to me.
She I loved and I lost was not you,
But what I had wished you to be.
Let such pure hate still underprop
© Henry David Thoreau
Let such pure hate still underprop
Our love, that we may be
Each other's conscience,
And have our sympathy
Mainly from thence.
Rumors from an Aeolian Harp
© Henry David Thoreau
There love is warm, and youth is young,
And poetry is yet unsung.
For Virtue still adventures there,
And freely breathes her native air.
