Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
For sure so fair a place was never seen; Of all that ever charmed romantic eye.
Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, / Why in the name of Glory were they proud?
When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.
Shakespeare led a life of allegory; his works are the comments on it.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year; / There are four seasons in the mind of man.
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face, / Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance.
My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music.
The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children
Their smiles, / Wan as primroses gathered at midnight / By chilly-fingered Spring.
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute,/ In Provence called `La belle dame sans merci’.
Yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.
My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk
Music’s golden tongue Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory!
Soon, up aloft, / The silver, snarling trumpets ‘gan to chide.
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