Bright StarBright star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains...
Point me out the way / To any one particular beauteous star.
When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.
He ne’er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? / Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
Turn the key deftly in the oil ”¨d wards, / And seal the hush ”¨d Casket of my Soul.
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory!
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave A paradise for a sect
Fame like a wayward girl, will still be coy – To those who woo her with too slavish knees
Virgin-choir to make delicious moan / Upon the midnight hours.
I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.
Out went the taper as she hurried in; / Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died.
My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fiber all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this sight of faintness — if I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor — but as I am I...
I cannot exist without you – I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again – my Life seems to stop there – I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I were dissolving… I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for...
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, / Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too?
The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,What can I do to kill it and be free?
That men, who might have tower’d in the vanOf all the congregated world, to fanAnd winnow from the coming step of timeAll chaff of custom, wipe away all slimeLeft by men-slugs and human serpentry,Have been content to let occasion die,Whilst they did sleep in love’s Elysium.
I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.
And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun/ And she forgot the blue above the trees,/ And she forgot the dells where waters run,/ And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;/ She had no knowledge when the day was done,/ And the new morn she saw not: but in peace/ Hung over her sweet...
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter