George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The read more
I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters; it unmans one quite,
Especially when life is rather new.
As good as a play.
As good as a play.
And I have loved them, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
read more
And I have loved them, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like shy bubbles, onward; from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers.
. . . .
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.
Hope, withering, fled--and Mercy sighed farewell.
Hope, withering, fled--and Mercy sighed farewell.
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water!
Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water!
Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the read more
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure.
Which follows the decline of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
So well she acted all and every part
By turns--with that vivacious versatility,
Which many people take read more
So well she acted all and every part
By turns--with that vivacious versatility,
Which many people take for want of heart.
They err--'tis merely what is call'd mobility,
A thing of temperament and not of art,
Though seeming so, from its supposed facility;
And false--though true; for surely they're sincerest
Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.
The devil's in the moon for mischief; they
Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon
Their read more
The devil's in the moon for mischief; they
Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon
Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
Sees half the business in a wicked way,
On which three single hours of moonshine smile--
And then she looks so modest all the while!
The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
. . . .
I have found that a read more
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
. . . .
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
