Samuel Taylor Coleridge ( 10 of 102 )
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I read more
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea.
All Nature seems at work, slugs leave their lair--
The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
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All Nature seems at work, slugs leave their lair--
The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Swans sing before they die - 'twere no bad thing should certain persons die before they sing.
Swans sing before they die - 'twere no bad thing should certain persons die before they sing.
I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children, and what an inhuman world without the read more
I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children, and what an inhuman world without the aged
Ah! replied my gentle fair,
Beloved, what are names but air?
Choose thou, whatever suits the line:
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Ah! replied my gentle fair,
Beloved, what are names but air?
Choose thou, whatever suits the line:
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage, or Doris,
Only, only, call me thine.
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth,
And constancy lives in read more
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth,
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain;
And to be wrothe with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
Talk of the devil, and his horns appear
Talk of the devil, and his horns appear
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Remorse is as the heart in which it grows;
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
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Remorse is as the heart in which it grows;
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,
It is the poison tree, that pierced to the inmost,
Weeps only tears of poison.
