Category Poets

I.The golden gates of Sleep unbarWhere Strength and Beauty, met together,Kindle their image like a starIn a sea of glassy weather!Night, with all thy stars look down,—Darkness, weep thy holiest dew,—Never smiled the inconstant moonOn a pair so true.Let eyes…

Art thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,And ever changing, like a joyless eyeThat finds no object worth its constancy?

Heigho! the lark and the owl!One flies the morning, and one lulls the night:Only the nightingale, poor fond soul,Sings like the fool through darkness and light.”A widow bird sate mourning for her loveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on…

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noonday dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on…

The fitful alternations of the rain,When the chill wind, languid as with painOf its own heavy moisture, here and thereDrives through the gray and beamless atmosphere.

I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright:I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!The…

O world! O life! O time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more—Oh, never more!Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight;Fresh spring, and summer,…

She left me at the silent timeWhen the moon had ceas’d to climbThe azure path of Heaven’s steep,And like an albatross asleep,Balanc’d on her wings of light,Hover’d in the purple night,Ere she sought her ocean nestIn the chambers of the…

IArt thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,—And ever changing, like a joyless eyeThat finds no object worth its constancy?IIThou chosen sister of the Spirit,That gazes on thee…

Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the belovèd’s bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.