Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home;
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
He had the passion and the power to roam;

-Lord Byron,
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Third, 1816





Melodious Pain

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale,
    Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;

-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822),
Adonais





Blue Star

His head was bound with pansies overblown,
    And faded violets, white and pied and blue;

-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822),
Adonais





Call of the Ocean

Sunset and evening star,
    And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
    When I put out to sea,

-Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892),
Crossing the Bar





Solitary Way

    Whither, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
    Thy solitary way?

-William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878),
To a Waterfowl





Fishman

    Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
    On the chafed ocean side?

-William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878),
To a Waterfowl





When I Embark

Twilight and evening bell,
    And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
    When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
    The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
    When I have crossed the bar.

-Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892),
Crossing the Bar





Mirrors of Fire

    That light whose smile kindles the universe,
        That beauty in which all things work and move,
    That benediction which the eclipsing curse
        Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love
        Which, through the web of being blindly wove
    By man and beast and earth and air and sea,
        Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
    The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me,
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822),
Adonais





Weight of the Hour

    A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift--
        A love in desolation masked--a power
    Girt round with weakness; it can scarce uplift
        The weight of the superincumbent hour.
        It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
    A breaking billow;--even whilst we speak
        Is it not broken? On the withering flower
    The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood even while the heart may break.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822),
Adonais





Pursuit

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882),
The Rhodora
On Being Asked, Whence is The Flower?





Wings

They reckon ill who leave me out;
    When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
    And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882),
Brahma





Last Light

And while in life's late afternoon,
    Where cool and long the shadows grow,
I walk to meet the night that soon
    Shall shape and shadow overflow,
I cannot feel that thou art far,
Since near at need the angels are;

-John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 - 1892),
Snow-Bound; A Winter Idyl





Beckoning Hand

And when the sunset gates unbar,
    Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
And, white against the evening star,
    The welcome of thy beckoning hand?

-John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 - 1892),
Snow-Bound; A Winter Idyl





Western Wave

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,
    Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,--
    Swift by thy flight!

-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822),
To Night







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images © 2000 by Randy Wang
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