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(1795-1821)  -

      .  ,       .  1817      ,        .      .           .  1818     ,    .  1819     .      ,        .        .  .   .                    .  1820   ,  ,   .     1821 .




 


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On The Sea

It keeps eternal whispering aroun

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell

Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell

Of Hacate leaves them their old sound.



Often tis in such gentle temper found,

That scarcely will the very smallest shell

Be movd for days from where it sometime fell,

When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.



O ye! who have your eye-balls vaxd and tird ,

Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;

O ye! whose ears are dinnd with uproar rude,

Or fed too much with cloying melody 

Sit ye near some old Caverns Mouth, and brood

Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!

 

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1- 

Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,

Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;

Without that modest softening that enhances

The downcast eye, repentant of the pain

That its mild light creates to heal again:

E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,

E'en then my soul with exultation dances

For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:



But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,

Heavens! how desperately do I adore

Thy winning graces; to be thy defender

I hotly burn  to be a Calidore -

A very Red Cross Knight  a stout Leander -

Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

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Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;

Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest

Till the fond, fixed eyes forget they stare.

From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare

To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd

They be of what is worthy, though not drest

In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.



Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;

These lures I straight forget, e'en ere I dine,

Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark

Such charms with mild intelligences shine,

My ear is open like a greedy shark,

To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

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3 

Ah! who can eer forget so fair a being?

Who can forget her half retiring sweets?

God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats

For mans protection. Surely the All-seeing,

Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,

Will never give him pinions, who intreats

Such innocence to ruin, who vilely cheats

A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing

Ones thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear

A lay that once I saw her hand awake,

Her form seems floating palpable, and near;

Had I eer seen her from an arbour take

A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,

And oer my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

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To Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.



Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.



Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.



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On peace

O Peace! And dost thou with thy presence bless

The dwelling of this war-surrounded Isle;

Soothing with placid brow our late distress,

Making the triple kingdom brightly smile?



Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail

The sweet companions that await on thee;

Complete my joy  let not my first wish fail,

Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favorite be,



With England's happiness proclaim Europa's liberty.

O Europe! Let not sceptred tyrants see

That thou must shelter in thy former state;

Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou are free;

Give thy kings law  leave not uncurbed the great;

So with the horrors past thou'lt win thy happier fate!

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THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET



The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper's  he takes the lead

In summer luxury, he has never done

With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.



The poetry of earth is ceasing never;

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.



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The human seasons

Four Seasons fill the measure of year;

There are four seasons in the mind of man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span:



He has his Summer, when luxuriously

Springs honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves



His soul has  in its Autumn, when his wings

He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists   in idleness  to let fair things

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else would forego his mortal nature.

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Modern love

AND what is love? It is a doll dress'd up

For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;

A thing of soft misnomers, so divine

That silly youth doth think to make itself

Divine by loving, and so goes on

Yawning and doting a whole summer long,

Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,

And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;

Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,

And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.

Fools! if some passions high have warm'd the world,




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