SEE ALL TAGS & MOODS
“A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, —
This debt we pay to human guile;
I am — yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes —
Wife and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name:
For when that fatal knot is tied,
The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such unelusive glories fall,
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
Shall earth no more inspire thee,
Thou lonely dreamer now?
Since passion may not fire thee
All things within this fading world hath end,
Adversity doth still our joyes attend;
No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry “‘weep! ‘weep! ‘weep! ‘weep!”
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
