I am this fountain's god. Below I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers I come from haunts of coot and hern I come, I come! ye have called me long I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way. I dreampt a dream! What can it mean? I envy not in any moods I found a fellow-worker when I deemed I toiled alone I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain I had a little chamber in the house I have been in the meadows all the day I have had playmates, I have had companions I knew, I knew it could not last. I know not that the men of old I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend I lay in sorrow, deep distressed I learnt to love that England. Very oft I lothe that I dyd love. I love it - I love it, and who shall dare I love thee! I love thee! I loved him not; and yet now he is gone I pray thee love, love me no more I prithee, send me back my heart I sail'd from the Downs in the " Nancy I saw, but thou could'st not I see a star-eve's firstborn!-in whose train I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he I thought once how Theocritus had sung I wander'd lonely as a cloud I was a stricken deer that left the herd I weep for Adonais he is dead! If all the world and love were young If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song If he, from heaven that filch'd that living fire If one could have that little head of hers If sometimes in the haunts of men If that high world, which lies beyond George Gordon, Lord Byron. 429 George Gordon, Lord Byron. 430 Samuel Rogers 253 If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance If thou wilt ease thine heart If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright I'll gaze no more on her bewitching face I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary In all trade of war no feat In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships "In love, if love be love, if love be ours In lowly dale, fast by a river's side In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman stretched In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young In the hurry of a fray In the night she told a story Samuel Lover Lady Dufferin E. Lee Hamilton James Thomson 102 613 · 159 · 157 502 103 Alfred Tennyson 546 152 William Wordsworth 276 527 Samuel Butler 102 Robert Gilfillan In yonder grave a Druid lies Inland, within a hollow vale I stood William Collins William Wordsworth Inquirest thou, O man, wherewithal may I come unto the Lord? Martin Farquhar Tupper. Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom Is there a bard whom Genius fires Is there a whim-inspired fool. Is there for honest poverty Is this a dagger which I see before me It fortifies my soul to know It is a beauteous evening, calm and free Walter Savage Landor Robert Burns Arthur Hugh Clough It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying Elizabeth Barrett Browning King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport Know thou this truth, enough for man to know Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Lady Clara Vere de Vere Last came Anarchy; he rode Last night I met mine own true love Launch thy bark, mariner! Lay a garland on my hearse Layd in my quiet bed in study as I were Leave now our streets, and in yon plain behold Lesbia hath a beaming eye Let us go, lassie, go Life! I know not what thou art. Life of Life! thy lips enkindle Like a loose island on the wide expanse Like an island in a river Like as the culver on the bared bough Little lamb, who made thee? Lo, as a dove when up she springs Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours William Shakespeare 38 571 287 512 Ben Jonson 7 William Shakespeare 49 Thomas Gray. 181 Matthew Arnold. 579 Money that, like the swords of kings Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors Much have I travelled in the realms of gold My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! My mind to me a kingdom is. My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined My Phillis hath the morning Sun My silks and fine array My soul turn from them; turn we to survey Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew Nay, do not think I flatter Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled Never any more Night is the Sabbath of mankind No coward soul is mine No man has more contempt than I of breath No more shall the meads be deck'd with flowers No, no, fair heretic, it needs must be No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all None are all evil-quickening round his heart Lord Macaulay 492 William Shakespeare 53 William Shakespeare 40 Robert Burns 241 "O brightest of my children dear, earth-born O force of faith! O strength of virtuous will! O God, whose thunder shakes the sky O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears O lay thy hand in mine, dear! O listen, listen, ladies gay! "O Love, come back, across the weary way O! love of loves! to thy white hand is given O lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! O lovers' eyes are sharp to see O Mary, at thy window be O may I join the choir invisible O my Luve's like a red, red rose O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray O now, for ever O only Source of all our light and life "O open the door, some pity to show O rose! who dares to name thee? O Sandy, why leaves thou thy Nelly to mourn? O so drowsy! In a daze "O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South O, those little, those little blue shoes! O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd O! thou undaunted daughter of desires O Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear! O thou, who sit'st a smiling bride O Time, who knowest a lenient hand to lay O unseen Spirit! now a calm divine O were my love yon lilac fair O! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the North O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? O wild West Wind, thou breath of autumn's being O world! O life! O time! O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom! O yet we trust that somehow good O young Lochinvar is come out of the west. Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade Oh! doubt me not the season Oh fair to be, oh sweet to be "Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home" Oh, no! we never mention him, his name is never heard Oh Reader! hast thou ever stood to see Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing. Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed Samuel Taylor Coleridge. |