75 quotes
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Over the brink of it
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute man.
Lave in it—drink of it
Then, if you can.
The Bridge of Sighs (1844)
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!
The Bridge of Sighs (1844)
When he's forsaken,
Wither'd and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?
His death which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton tolled the bell.
We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread.
The Song of the Shirt (1843)
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,—
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found.
Never go to France
Unless you know the lingo,
If you do, like me,
You will repent, by jingo.
The Morn! she is the source of sighs,
The very face to make us sad;
If but to think in other times
The same calm quiet look she had.
Ode to Melancholy (1827)
But she is vanish'd to her shady home
Under the deep, inscrutable; and there
Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.
Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
And echo’s answering sounds,
All poets’ wit hath every writ
In dog-rel verse of hounds.
The Epping Hunt (1829)
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold.
Pity it is to slay the meanest thing.
Some sigh for this and that;
My wishes don't go far;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.
There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.
At night, to his own dark fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.
Father of rosy day,
No more thy clouds of incense rise;
But waking flow'rs,
At morning hours,
Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
Each cloud-capt mountain is a holy altar;
An organ breathes in every grove;
And the full heart 's a Psalter,
Rich in deep hymn of gratitude and love.
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!