57 quotes
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
Poems (1820)
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot.
Poems (1820)
Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
Poems (1820)
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
Poems (1820)
And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?
Poems (1820)
And then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
Poems (1817)
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
Poems (1820)
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain.
Poems (1817)
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Poems (1820)
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.
Poems (1820)
“For cruel ’tis,” said she,
“To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”
Poems (1820)
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth.
Poems (1820)
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade.
Poems (1820)
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
Poems (1820)
Stop and consider! life is but a day;
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
From a tree's summit.
Poems (1817)
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies.
Poems (1817)
The sweet converse of an innocent mind.
Poems (1817)
The music, yearning like a God in pain.
Poems (1820)
The poetry of earth is never dead.
Poems (1817)
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies.
Poems (1820)