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ancient ballads beauty Ben Jonson biographical note born bright Burns called Camelot century Chaucer Christabel death doth dream Dryden earth English poetry English Poets Essay eyes Faerie Queene fair Feast fire flowers Geoffrey Chaucer Gray Greek happy hath hear heart heaven immortal John Lydgate King Lady of Shalott Leigh Hunt light lines literature living London Lord loud Lycidas lyric maid Milton mind moon morning Muse ne'er never night numbers o'er Paradise Lost poet poetic poetry Pope published rhyme river Robert Henryson Robin Robin Hood rose round runne softly says sche seems Shakespeare Shelley short poems sigh sing Sir Patrick Spens sleep Sonnets soul sound Spenser spirit stanza stars Stopford Brooke stream suld sweet Tennyson thee Themmes thine thou thought unto verse versification voice weary wild wind word Wordsworth write written
Page 70 - Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Page 85 - Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy 1 Still would'st thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod.
Page 51 - THE SOLITARY REAPER. BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass ! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen ! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
Page 131 - Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
Page 37 - There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
Page 69 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Page 126 - Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault.
Page 41 - What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest — Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood...
Page 44 - The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.