SEE ALL TAGS & MOODS
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font.
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into…
Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes!
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn!
For me wilt thou renew the withered rose,
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said — “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert.... Near them, on the sand,
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, — mud from a muddy spring;
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
The train has stopped for no apparent reason
In the wilds;
A frozen lake is level and fretted over
Our life is like a forest, where the sun
Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves;
I am the people — the mob — the crowd — the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
“Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing
On the west wind blowing along this valley track?”
“The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,
They are all gone away,
The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne
Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky
Washing the ridge; a clamour…
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately.
I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness,
For my surrounding air hath a new lightness;
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
Living, I had no might
To make you hear,
Now, in the inmost night,
On her Son H.P. at St. Syth’s Church where her body also lies interred
What on Earth deserves our trust?
Youth and Beauty both are dust.
‘O Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped — In vain! vain! vain!
Out of the deep and the dark,
A sparkling mystery, a shape,
Something perfect,
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
Whom Jove’s great son to her glad…
What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,
The labor of an age in pilèd stones,
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
I think I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
About the Shark, phlegmatical one,
Pale sot of the Maldive sea,
The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim,
Mr. Kessler, you know, was in the army,
And he drew six dollars a month as a pension,
And stood on the corner talking politics,
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
A moment the wild swallows like a flight
Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,
Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.
What if the sun comes out
And the new furrows do not look smeared?
This is April, and the sumach candles
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever;
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.
The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
