Category Poets

I.Death is here and death is there,Death is busy everywhere,All around, within, beneath,Above is death—and we are death.II.Death has set his mark and sealOn all we are and all we feel,On all we know and all we fear,. . .III.First…

My head is heavy, my limbs are weary,And it is not life that makes me move.

I.They die—the dead return not—MiserySits near an open grave and calls them over,A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye—They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone—Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant…

Dark Spirit of the desart rudeThat o’er this awful solitude,Each tangled and untrodden wood,Each dark and silent glen below,Where sunlight’s gleamings never glow,Whilst jetty, musical and still,In darkness speeds the mountain rill;That o’er yon broken peaks sublime,Wild shapes that mock…

DRAMATIS PERSONAEKing Charles I.Queen Henrietta.Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury.Wentworth, Earl of Strafford.Lord Cottington.Lord Weston.Lord Coventry.Williams, Bishop of Lincoln.Secretary Lyttelton.Juxon.St. John.Archy, the Court Fool.Hampden.Pym.Cromwell.Cromwell’s Daughter.Sir Harry Vane the younger.Leighton.Bastwick.Prynne.Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, Citizens, Pursuivants, Marshalsmen, Law Students, Judges, Clerk.Scene I.—The…

THE.‘Good night, good night!’—How comeWill the night be good without you?Don’t tell me good night,—that you know,The night knows how to be good by itself. II.Solinga, dark, gloomy, without hope,The night when Lila abandons me;For the hearts of those who…

I.Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind,The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair?When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hindRepose trust in his footsteps of air?No! Abandoned he sinks in a trance of despair,The monster…

I.How stern are the woes of the desolate mournerAs he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier,As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,And drops to perfection’s remembrance a tear;When floods of despair down his pale cheeks…

Thy beauty hangs around thee likeSplendour around the moon—Thy voice, as silver bells that strikeUpon. . .

I.The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest…