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English poet
(1770 - 1850)
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
      - To B.R. Haydon (l. 14) [Glory]

O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
  I hear thee and rejoice;
    O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
      Or but a wandering Voice?
      - To the Cuckoo [Cuckoos]

Bright flowers, whose home is everywhere
  Bold in maternal nature's care
    And all the long year through the heir
      Of joy and sorrow,
        Methinks that there abides in thee
          Some concord with humanity,
            Given to no other flower I see
              The forest through.
      - To the Daisy [Daisies]

Oft on the dappled turf at ease
  I sit, and play with similes,
    Loose type of things through all degrees.
      - To the Daisy [Language]

The poet's darling.
      - To the Daisy [Daisies]

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
  When such are wanted.
      - To the Daisy [Daisies]

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast
  False fires, that others may be lost.
      - To the Lady Fleming [Deceit : Shipwreck]

Pleasures newly found are sweet
  When they lie about our feet:
    February last, my heart
      First at sight of thee was glad;
        All unheard of as thou art,
          Thou must needs, I think have had,
            Celandine! and long ago,
              Praise of which I nothing know.
      - To the Same Flower [Celandines]

Thou unassuming Commonplace
  Of Nature.
      - To the Same Flower [Daisies]

Eyes of some men travel far
  For the finding of a star;
    Up and down the heavens they go,
      Men that keep a mighty rout!
        I'm as great as they, I trow,
          Since the day I found thee out,
            Little Flower!--I'll make a stir,
              Like a sage astronomer.
      - To the Small Celandine [Celandines]

Long as there's a sun that sets,
  Primroses will have their glory;
    Long as there violets,
      They will have a place in story:
        There's a flower that shall be mine,
          'Tis the little Celandine.
      - To the Small Celandine [Celandines]

Often have I sighed to measure
  By myself a lonely pleasure,--
    Sighed to think I read a book,
      Only read, perhaps, by me.
      - To the Small Celandine [Solitude]

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
  Let them live upon their praises.
      - To the Small Celandine [Flowers]

But ne'er to a seductive lay let faith be given;
  Nor deem that "light that leads astray" is light from Heaven.
      - To the Sons of Burns [Light]

True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
  Whose veil is unremoved
    Till heart with heart in concord beats,
      And the lover is beloved.
      - To-------Let Other Bards of Angels Sing

Alas! how little can a moment show
  Of an eye where feeling plays
    In ten thousand dewy rays;
      A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
      - Triad [Beauty]

A simple child,
  That lightly draws its breath,
    And feels its life in every limb,
      What should it know of death?
      - We Are Seven [Childhood]

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
  Their spirits are in Heaven!"
    'Twas throwing words away; for still
      The little Maid would have her will,
        And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
      - We Are Seven [Death]

'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
  Of Faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
    Wreathes that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
      And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
      - Weak is the Will of Man [Faith]

The monumental pomp of age
  Was with this goodly Personage;
    A stature undepressed in size,
      Unbent, which rather seemed to rise
        In open victory o'er the weight
          Of seventy years, to loftier height.
      - White Doe of Rylstone (canto III) [Age]

The bells of Ryleston seemed to say,
  While she sat listening in the shade,
    With vocal music, "God us ayde!"
      And all the hills were glad to bear
        Their part in this effectual prayer.
      - White Doe of Rylstone (canto VII, st. 11)

Like an army defeated
  The snow hath retreated,
    And now doth fare ill
      On the top of the bare hill;
        The Ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon!
          There's joy in the mountains:
            There's life in the fountains;
              Small clouds are sailing,
                Blue sky prevailing;
                  The rain is over and gone.
      - Written in March [March]

Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
  Under the sky's gray arch;
    Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing
      It is the wind of March.
      - Written in March [March]

My winsome marrow.
      - Yarrow Revisited,
        quoting from the old song "The Braes of Yarrow"

From Stirling Castle we had seen
  The mazy Forth unravelled;
    Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
      And with the Tweed had travelled;
        And when we came to Clovenford,
          Then said "my winsome marrow,"
            "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
              And see the braes of Yarrow."
      - Yarrow Unvisited [Rivers]

Displaying page 13 of 14 for this author:   << Prev  Next >>  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 [13] 14

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