Sorrow's Shroud

And all that space my mirth adjourn So thou wouldst promise to return; And putting off thy ashy shroud At length disperse this sorrow's cloud. -Henry King (1592-1669), Exequy on His Wife

Sleepy Lake

In timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, -William Blake (1757-1827), To the Evening Star

Dream Tree

--But there's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone:     The Pansy at my feet     Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? -William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

Free As Wind

My lines and life are free; free as the road,   Loose as the wind, as large as store. -George Herbert (1593-1633), The Collar

Light in the Grove

"And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love, And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove. -William Blake (1757-1827), The Little Black Boy

Lone Journey

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,     And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come?     For of my life I am weary. -Anonymous (c.1400-c.1600), Waly, Waly

Constance

O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; -William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Let Me Not; to the Marriage of True Minds, Sonnet CXVI

Mountain Ghost

O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! -Ben Johnson (1572-1637), The Triumph of Charis, from A Celebration of Charis in Ten Lyric Pieces

Silent Woods

and wreathes of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. -William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey

Moving Delight

But still moves delight, Like clear springs renewed by flowing, Ever perfect, ever in them-     selves eternal. -Thomas Campion (1567-1620), Rose-cheeked Laura

Plea

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears; -Ben Johnson (1572-1637), Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount, Keep Time with My Salt Tears, from Cynthia's Revels

Last Hours

Come, my Celia, let us prove While we may the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever, He at length our good will sever. -Ben Johnson (1572-1637), Come, My Celia, Let Us Prove, from Volpone

Breeze

But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, -Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), Frost at Midnight

Trembling

Of every sort which in that meadow grew They gathered some; the violet, pallid blue, The little daisy that at evening closes, The virgin lily and the primrose true, With store of vermeil roses, To deck their bridgegrooms' poises Against the bridal day, which was not long:     Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song. -Edmund Spenser (c.1552-1599), Prothalamion

Hidden Grace

Rose-cheeked Laura, come, Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's Silent music, either other     Sweetly gracing. -Thomas Campion (1567-1620), Rose-cheeked Laura

Walls of Coral

Then the holy paths we'll travel, Strewed with rubies thick as gravel, Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, High walls of coral and pearl bowers. -Sir Walter Ralegh (1554-1618), The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage

I Sing

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers, -Robert Herrick (1591-1673), The Argument of His Book

That Time of Year

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang. -William Shakespeare (1564-1616), That Time of Year Though Mayst in Me Behold, Sonnet LXXIII

Whispering Leaves

The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade, The winds play no longer, and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. -William Cowper (1731-1800), The Poplar Field

Visions in the Stream

And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture displayed, Softly on my eyelids laid. -John Milton (1608-1674), Il Penseroso

Hermitage in the Mirror

And thus invoke us, "You, whom reverend love     Made one another's hermitage;     You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove         Into the glasses of your eyes         (So made such mirrors, and such spies, That they did all to you epitomize);     Countries, towns, courts beg from above     A pattern of your love." -John Donne (1572-1631), The Canonization

Mystic Chasm

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. -Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), Kubla Khan

Kubla Khan

So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. -Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), Kubla Khan

Kubla Khan

So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. -Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), Kubla Khan

Awe in the Shadow

And long shall timorous fancy see     The painted chief, and pointed spear And Reason's self shall bow the knee     To shadows and delusions here. -Philip Freneau (1752-1832), The Indian Buring Ground

Misty Mountain Winds

And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee: and in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; -William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey

Silent Symphony

"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend;     Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form     By silent symphony. -William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Lucy, Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower

Titanic Battle

While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. -Oliver Goldsmith (c.1730-1774), The Deserted Village

Battle Through the Ages

Here still a lofty rock remains,     On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)     The fancies of a ruder race. -Philip Freneau (1752-1832), The Indian Buring Ground

Kiss of Clouds

And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. -John Milton (1608-1674), Il Penseroso

Imaginary Depth

Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile,     Or upland fallows grey,     Reflect its last cool gleam. -William Collins (1721-1759), Ode to Evening

Following the Light

Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might     To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be, Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,     That doth both shine and give us sight to see. -Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586), Leave Me, O Love, Which Reachest But to Dust

Worship

I daresay anything can be made holy by being sincerely worshipped. -Iris Murdoch, The Message to the Planet

Image of Life

And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned, But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all. -Herman Melville, Moby-Dick, 1851

Trembling Reflections

Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:         But for those first affections,         Those shadowy recollections,     Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; -William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

Jealous Eyes

For fate with jealous eye does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close; Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrannic power depose. -Andrew Marvell (1621-1678), The Definition of Love

Weep No More

Weep you no more, sad fountains;     What need you flow so fast? -Anonymous (c.1400-c.1600), Weep You No More, Sad Fountains

Happy Journey

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; -William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

Glimpse of Soul

Whilst my soul like a white palmer Travels to the land of heaven, -Sir Walter Ralegh (1554-1618), The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage

Where Sweetness Dwells

I'll bring them first To slake their thirst, And then to taste those nectar suckets, At the clear wells Where sweetness dwells, Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. -Sir Walter Ralegh (1554-1618), The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage

Dancer

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance? -William Butler Yeats, Among School Children, 1927

Never Thirst More

And there I'll kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink my eternal fill On every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before, But after it will ne'er thirst more. -Sir Walter Ralegh (1554-1618), The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage

Winter's Grief

Oh, I could still, Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,         Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil. -Ben Johnson (1572-1637), Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount, Keep Time with My Salt Tears, from Cynthia's Revels

Eternal Sunshine

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. -Oliver Goldsmith (c.1730-1774), The Deserted Village

Yearning

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill     My perspective, still, as they pass: Or else remove me hence unto that hill     Where I shall need no glass. -Henry Vaughan (1622-1695), They Are All Gone into the World of Light

Golden Fervor

Farewell; and O, where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigors of the inclement clime; -Oliver Goldsmith (c.1730-1774), The Deserted Village

Perishing Pleasure

'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he. -William Cowper (1731-1800), The Poplar Field

Fallen Light

Calling the lapsed Soul And weeping in the evening dew; That might controll The starry pole; And fallen, fallen light renew! -William Blake (1757-1827), Hear the Voice of the Bard, from Songs of Experience

Undying Fire

But true love is a durable fire     In the mind ever burning; Never sick, never old, never dead,     From itself never turning. -Anonymous (c.1400-c.1600), As You Came from the Holy Land of Walsingham

Forgotten Promise

Know that love is a careless child     And forgets promise past; He is blind, he is deaf when he list     And in faith never fast. -Anonymous (c.1400-c.1600), As You Came from the Holy Land of Walsingham

Day Desires

Cease, dreams, th' images of day-desires,     To model forth the passions of the morrow; -Samuel Daniel (1562-1619), Care-Charmer Sleep, Son of the Sable Night

Winter's Passion

For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. -William Shakespeare (1564-1616), When Daffodils Begin to Peer, from The Winter's Tale