The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
How many bards gild the lapses of time! A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or’ sublime : And often, when I sit me down to…
Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear From my glad bosom,—now from gloominess I mount for ever—not an atom less Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here In the…
1. God of the golden bow, And of the golden lyre, And of the golden hair, And of the golden fire, Charioteer Of the patient year, Where—-where slept thine ire, When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,…
In thy western halls of gold When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires. Here Homer…
When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,…
As from the darkening gloom a silver dove Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light, On pinions that nought moves but pure delight, So fled thy soul into the realms above, Regions of peace and everlasting love; Where happy spirits,…
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain? Bright as the humming-bird’s green diadem, When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain? Hast thou a goblet for…
What though while the wonders of nature exploring, I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend; Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, Bless Cynthia’s face, the enthusiast’s friend: Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes, With you, kindest…
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody! Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, Had touch’d her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer’d them to die. O’ershadowing sorrow doth…
How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers ! Oh ! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow’ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past : thou art among…