The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Here are sweet-peas, on tip-toe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
Fame like a wayward girl, will still be coy - To those who woo her with too slavish knees
Why were they proud again we ask aloud, Why in the name of Glory were they proud
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.
St Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold.
No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest
Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
They shall be accounted poet kings Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.
And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true.
Thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O Solitude If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings
I would jump down Etna for any public good -- but I hate a mawkish popularity.
I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.
I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman -- they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence.
Health is my expected heaven.
I always made an awkward bow.
Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced -- even a proverb is no proverb to you till your life has illustrated it.
You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.