| Term | Definition |
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| "Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! And again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmun.—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wilf secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky." | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| "The day is come when I again repose, Here, under the dark sycamore, and view these plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and cposes." | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| "Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths 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." | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owned to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;" | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:--feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and love. | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| "Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime: that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things" | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! How oft- In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart— Of oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I cam among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, And the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad Animal movements all gone by TO me was all in all. | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| I cannot paint When then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me, An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. –That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| Not for this, Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, through ample power To chasten and subde. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, And in the mind of man: | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| And in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought And rolls through all things. Therefor I am still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world OF eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| Not perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch THe language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! Yet a little while May I behold in thee what I Was once, My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray THe heart that loved her; | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| 'Tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tounges, Rash judgements, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountains-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 shall be as a dwelling place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! Then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts OF tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance— IF I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams OF past existence—wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love—oh! With far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! | Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey. 1798. |
| I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. | Wordsworth. I wandered lonely as a cloud. 1803. |
| Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle in the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of the bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. | Wordsworth. I wandered lonely as a cloud. 1803. |
| The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: | Wordsworth. I wandered lonely as a cloud. 1803. |
| For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant of pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils. | Wordsworth. I wandered lonely as a cloud. 1803. |
| My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So it was when my life began So it is now I am a man; SO be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! | Wordsworth. My heart leaps up when I behold. 1802. |
| The child is the father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each by natural piety. | Wordsworth. My heart leaps up when I behold. 1802. |
| There was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander—many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees of by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as though and instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. | Wordsworth. There was a boy (The boy of Winander). 1798. |
| --And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, --with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of jocund din! And when there came a pause OF silence such as baffled his best skill; Then sometimes, in that silence, while he hung, Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received Into the bosom of the steady lake. | Wordsworth. There was a boy (The boy of Winander). 1798. |
| This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hands Upon a slope above the village-school; And through that churchyard when my way has led On summer evenings, I believe that there A long half-hour together I have stoof Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies! | Wordsworth. There was a boy (The boy of Winander). 1798. |
| I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in the sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while They Form was sleeping on a glassy sear. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! So like, so very life, was day to day! Whene'er I looked, they Image still was there; It trembled, but never passed away. | Wordsworth. Elegiac Stanzas---Peele Castle. 1805. |
| How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep; No mood, which season takes away, or brings: I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. Ah! Then, if mine had been the Painter's hand, To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, The light that enver was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream; | Wordsworth. Elegiac Stanzas---Peele Castle. 1805. |
| I would have painted thee, thou hoary Pile Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house diving Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heave;-- Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine THe very sweetest had to thee been given. | Wordsworth. Elegiac Stanzas---Peele Castle. 1805. |
| A Picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the movng tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such Picture would I at the time have made: As seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. | Wordsworth. Elegiac Stanzas---Peele Castle. 1805. |
| So once it owul dhave been,--'tis so no mor; I have submitted to a new control: A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanizes my Soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will n'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. | Wordsworth. Elegiac Stanzas---Peele Castle. 1805. |
| Then, Beaumont, Friend! Who would have been the Friend! If he had lived, of Him who I deplore, This work of thing I blame not, but comment; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. O 'tis a passional Work!—yet wise and well Well chosen is the spirit here; That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of feat! | Wordsworth. Elegiac Stanzas---Peele Castle. 1805. |
| And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, Cased in the unfeeling armour of the old time, The lighting, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives along, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is pitied; for 'tis surely bling. | Wordsworth. Elegiac Stanzas---Peele Castle. 1805. |
| But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here— Not without hope we suffer and we morun. | Wordsworth. Elegiac Stanzas---Peele Castle. 1805. |
| One summer evening (led by her) I found A little boat tied to a willow tree Within a rocky cave, its usual home. Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice OF mountain echoes did my boat move on; Leaving behing her still, on either side, Small circles glittering idly in the moon, Until they melted all into one track Of sparkling light. | Wordsworth. Prelude, Book I. Boat Stealing. |
| But now, like one who rows, Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point With an unswerving line, I fixed my view Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, The horizion's utmost boundary; for above Was nothing bust the starts and the grey sky. She was an elfin pinnace; lustily I dipped my oars into the silent lake, And as I rose upon the stroke, my boat Went heaving through the water like a swan; When, from behind that craggy steep till them THe horizion's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, As if with voluntary power instinct Upreared its hear. | Wordsworth. Prelude, Book I. Boat Stealing. |
| I struck and struck again, And growing still in stature the grim shape Towered up between me and the stars, and still, For so it seemed, with purpose of its own And measured motion like a living thing, Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, And through the silent water stole my way Back to the covert of the willow tree; There in her mooring-pace I left my bark,-- And through the meadows homeward went, in grave And serious mood; | Wordsworth. Prelude, Book I. Boat Stealing. |
| but after I had seen That spectacle, for many days, my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes Remained, no pleasant images of trees, Of sea or sky, no colors of green fields; But huge and might forms, that do not live Like living men, moved slowly through the mind By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. | Wordsworth. Prelude, Book I. Boat Stealing. |
| Yet still in me with those soft luxuries Mixed something of stern mood, an under-thirst Of vigor seldom utterly allayed. And from that source how different a sadness Would issue, let on incident make known. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| When from the Vallais we had turned, and clomb Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road, Following a band of muleteers, we reached A halting place, where all together took Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our guide, Leaving us at the board; awhile we lingered Then paced the beaten downward way that led Right to a rough stream's edge, and there broke off; THe only track now visible was one That from the torrent's further brink held forth Conspicuous invitation to ascent A lofty mountain. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| After a brief delay Crossing the unbridged stream, that road we took, And clomb with eagerness, till anxious fears Intruded, for we failed to overtake Our comerades gone before. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| By fortunate chance, While every moment added doubt to doubt, A peasent met us, from whose mouth we learned That to the spot which had perplexed us first We must descend, and there should find the road Which in the stony channel of the stream Lay a few steps, and then along its banks; And that our future course, all plain to sight, Was downwards, with the current of the stream. Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear, For still we had hopes that pointed to the clouds, We questioned him again, and yet again; But every word from the peasent's lips Came in reply, translated by our feelings, Ended in this—that we had crossed the Alps. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| Imaginion—here the Power so called Through sad incompetence of human speech, That awful Power rose from the mind's abyss Like an unfatehered vapour that enwraps, At once, some lonely traveler. I was lost; Halted without an effort to break through; But to my conscious soul I can now say— "I recognize thy glory:" i | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| soul I can now say— "I recognize thy glory:" in such strength Of usurpation, when the light of the sense Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed The invisible world, doth greatness make abode, There harbours whether we are to be young or old. Our destiny, our being's heart and home, Is with infinitude, and only there; | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| With hope it is, hope that can never die, Effort, and expectation, and desire, And something evermore about to be Under such banners militant, the soul Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils That may attest to her prowess, blest in thoughts That are their own perfection and reward, Strong in herself and in beatitude That hides her, like the might flood of Nile Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds To fertilise the whole Egyptian plane. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| The melancholy slackening that ensued Upon those tidings by the peasant given Was soon dislodged. Downwards we hurried fast, And , with the half-shaped road which we had missed, Entered a narrow chasm. THe brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, And with them did we journey sevela hours At a slow pace | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| THe immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, THe stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent at every turn Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light— Were all workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree; Characters of the great apocolaypse, THe types and symbols of Eternity, Of first, and last, and midst, without end. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| That night our lodging was house that's stood Alone within the valley, at a point Where, tumbling from aloft, a torrent swelled The rapid stream whose margin we had trod; A dreary mansion, large beyond all need, With high and spacious rooms, deafened and stunned By noise of waters, making innocent sleep Lie melancholy among weary bones. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book VI. Crossing the Alps. |
| There are in our existence spots of time, That with distinct pre-eminence retain A renovating virtue, whence, depressed By false opinion and contentious thought, Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight, In trivial occupations, and the round Of ordinary discourse, our minds Are nourished and invisible repaired; | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| A virtue, by which pleasure is enchanced, That penetrates, enables us to mount, When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen. This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks Among those passages of life that give Profoundest knowledge of to what point, and how, The mind is lord and master—outward sense The obedient servant of her will. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| Such moments are scattered everywhere, taking their date From our first childhood. I remember well, That once, while yet in my inexperienced hand Could scarcely hold a drible, with proud hopes, I mounted, and we journeyed towards the hills: An ancient servant of my father's house Was with my, my encourager and guide; | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| We had not traveled long, ere some mischance Disjoiuned me from my comrade; and, through fear Dismounting, down the rough and stony moor I led my horse, and stumbling on, at length Came to a bottom, where in former times A murderer had been hung in iron chains. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| The gibbet-mast had mouldered down, the bones And iron case were gone; but on the turf Hard by, soon after that feel deed was weought, Some unkown hand had carved the murderer's name. The monumental letters were inscribed In time slong past; bust still, from yaer to year, By supersticition of the neighborhood, THe grass is cleared away, and to this house THe characters are fresh and visible. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| A casual glance had shown them, and I fled Faltering and faint, and ignorant of the road: Then, reascending the bare common, saw A naked pool that lay beneath the hills, The beacon on the summit, and more near, A girl, who bore a pitcher on her head, And seemed with difficult steps to force her way Against the blowing wind. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| It was, in truth, An ordinary sight; but I should need Colours and words that are unknown to man, To paint the visionary dreariness Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide, Invested moorland waste, and naked pool, THe beacon crowing the lone eminence, The female and her garments vexed and tossed By the strong wind. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| When in the blessed hours Of early love, the loved one at my side, I roamed in daily presence of this cence, Upon the naked pool and dreary crags, And on the melancholy beacon, fell A spirit of pleasure and youth's golden gleam; | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| And think ye not with radiance more sublime For these rememberances, and for the power They had left behing? So feeling comes in aid Of feeling, and diversity of strength Attends us, if but once we have been strong. Oh! Mysetery of man, from what a depth Proceed they honors. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| I am lost, but see In simple childhood something gof the base On which they greatness stands; but this I feel That from myself it comes, that thou must give Else never canst recive. THe days gone by Return upon me almost from the dawn Of life: the hiding places of a man's power Open; I would approach them, but they close. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| I see, by glimpses now; when age comes on, May scarcely see at all; and I would give, While yet we may, as far as words can give, Substance and life to what I feel, enshrining, Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past For future restoration. –Yet another Of these memorials:-- | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| One Christmas-time, On the glad eve of its dear holidays, Feverish, and tired, and restless, I went forth Into the fields, impatient for the sigh Of those led palfreys that should bear us hom; My brothers and myself. There rose a crag, That, from the meeting-point of two highways Ascending, overlooked them both, far stretched, Thither, uncertain on which road to fix, My expectation, thither I reparied, | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| Scout like, and gained the sumit; 'twas a day Tempestuous, dark, and wild, and on the grass I sate half-sheltered by a naked wall; | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| Upon my left a blasted hawthorn stood; With those companions at my side, I watched, Straining my eyes intensely, as the mist Gave intermitting prospect of the copse And plain beneath. Ere we to school returned— That dreary time, --ere we had been ten days Sojourners in my father's house, he died, And I and my three brothers, orphans then, Followed his body to the grave. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| The even, With all the sorrow that it brought, appeared A chastisement; and when I called to mind That day so lately past, when from the crag I looked in such anxiety and hope; With trite reflections of moraily Yet in the deepest passion, I bowed low to God,Who thus corrected my desires. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| And afterwards, the wind and sleety rain And all the business of the elements The single sheep, and the one blasted tree, And the bleak music from that old stone wall, THe noise of wood and water, and the mist That on the line of each of those two roads Advanced in such indisputable shapes; All these were kindred spectacles and sounds TO which I oft repaired, and thence would drink As at a fountain; | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| And on winter nights, Down to this very time, when storm and rain Beat on my roof of haply, at noon-day While in a grove I walk, whose lofty trees Laden with summer's thickest foliage, rock In a strong wind, some working of the spirit, Some inward agitations thence are brought, Whate'er their office, whether to beguile Thoughts over busy in the course they took, OR animate an hour of vacant ease. | Wordsworth. Prelude. Book XII. Spots of Time. |
| The Frost performs its secret ministry Upheld by any wind. The owlet's cry Cam loud—and hark, again! Loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruster musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| Tis calm indeed! So calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life. | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| Inaudible as dreams! Thin blue flame Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have a gazed upon the bars, To watch that fluttering stranger! And as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth=place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the peer man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern precepter's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leape up, For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we were both clothed alike! | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| Dear Babe, that sleepiest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! It thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, And in far other scenes! | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely bu the sky and stars. But thou, my babe! Shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, Which image their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself, Great universal Teacher! He shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon. | Coleridge. Frost at Midnight. 1798. |
| So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing three; And here were forest ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| 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! | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| 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 half0intermitted 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. | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| Through wood and dale the sacred rier ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| The shadow dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| IT was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount ABora. | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, TO such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long, | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! Those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle around him thrice, | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on the honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of paradise. | Coleridge. Kubla Khan. 1798. |
| Mypensive Sara! Thy soft cheek reclined Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is To sit beside out Cot, our Cot o'ergrown With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad=leav'd Myrtile. (Meet emblems they of Innocence and love!) | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be) Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents Snatch'd from yon bean-field! And the world so hush'd! The stilly murmur of the distant Sea Tell us of silence. | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| And that simplest Lute Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark! How by the desultory breeze caress'd, Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs Tempt to repeat the wrong! | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| And now, its strings Boldier swept, the long sequavious notes Over delicious surges sink and rise, Such a soft floating witchery of sound As twilight Elfins make, when they are at eve Voyage on gentle fales from Fairy-Land Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam'd wing! | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| O! the one Life within us and abroad, Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, Rhythm, in all thought and joyance every where— Me thinks, it should have been made impossible Not to love all things in a world so fil'd; Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air Is Music slumbering on her instrument. | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| And thus, My Love! As on the midway slope Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, Whilst through my half-clos'd eye-lis I behold THe sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, And tranquil muse upon tranquility; Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd, And many idle flitting phantasies, Travese my indolent and passive brain, As wild and various as the random gales That swell and flutter on this subject Lute! | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| And what if all animated nature, Be but organic Harps diversely fram'd, That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, At once the Soul of each, and God of all? | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| But they more serious eye a mild reproof, Darts, O beloved Woman! Nor such thoughts Dim and unshallow'd dost thou not reject, And biddest me walk humbly with my God. Meek daughter in the family of Christ! | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| Well hast thou saif and holily disprais'd These shapings of the unregenerate mind; Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break On vain Philosopy's aye-babbling spring, For never guiltless may I speak of him, The Incomprehensible! | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| Save when with awe I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; Who with is saving mercies healed me, A sinful and most miserable man, Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to posses, Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honor'd Maid! | Coleridge. The Eolian Harp. 1795 |
| It is an ancient Mariner, AN he stoppeth on of three. "By the long grey beard and glittering Eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set, May'st hear the merry din." He holds him with his skinny hand, "There was a ship," quoth he. "Hold off! Unhand me, grey beard Loon!" Edtsoons his hand dropt thee. He Holds him with his glitteringeye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: THe Mariner hath his will. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| The Wedding-Guest sat on a ston: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. "The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, Merrily di we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. THe sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon—" The Wedding-Guest here heat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bridge hath paced into the hall, Red as rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thuse spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. "And now the Storm-Blast came and he Was tyrannous and strong: HE struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursed with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head., The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southeward aye we fled. And now there cam both mist and show, And it grew wonderous cold; And ice, mast-high came floating by, As green as emerald. And through drifts the snow flifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes onf men nor ebeasts we ken— The ice was all between, The Ice was here, the ice was there, THe ice was all around: It crack and growled, and roard and howled, Like noises in a swound! | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| At length did cross and Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if ti had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. It at the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew, THe ice did split with a thunder-fit; THe helmsman steered us through! And a good south wind sprung up behing; The Albatross did follow, And everyday, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the nigjt, through fog-smokes white, Glimmered on the white Moon-shine: "God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends that plague thee thus! Why look'st thou so? With my cross bow I shot the Albatross. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| THe Sun now rose upon the right Out of the sea came he, Still hid mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behing, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo! And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred , I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! Said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow! Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun purist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brough thte fog and mist 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay That bring the fog and mist. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| THe fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, THe furrow followed free; We were the first that every burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt own, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break THe silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Water, water everywhere And all the boards did shrink, Water water everywhere And not any drop to drink. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| The very deed did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs, Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout, The death0fires danced at night, THe water ,like a wtich's oils, Burnt green and blue and white And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tounge, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if we had been choked with soot. Ah! Well a-day! What evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross, About my neck was hung! | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| There passed a weary time, Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye A weary time! A weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward ,I behold A something in the sky. AT first it seemed a little spekc And then it seemed a mist It moved and moved and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail: Through utter drought all dumb we stood, I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, a sail! A sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked Agape they heard me call Gramercy! They for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all. See! See! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! THe western wave was all a-flame. The day was well night done! Almost upon the wstern wave Rested the broad bright sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. And straight the sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grave!) As is through a dungeon-grate he peered With a broad and burning face. Alas! (thought I, and my heard beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the sun, Lile restless gossamers? | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that DEATH? And are there two? Is DEATH a woman's mate? Her lips were read, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold, Her skin was white as leprosy, The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. THe naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice "The game is done I've Won! I've Won!" Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; At one stride comes the dark With far-heard whisper, o'er te sea Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup. My lifeblood seemed to sip! THe stars were dim, and thich the night, THe steers man's fae by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip— Till clomb above the eastern bar THe horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether ship. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men (And I heard no sigh or groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly, They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, THe the whizz of my cross-bow! | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| I closed my lids and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they; The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! More horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. THe moving Moon went up in the sky And no where did abide: Softly she was gong up, And a star or two beside. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| "I feaer thee, ancience Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou are long,a nd lank and brown, AS is the ribbed sea-sand. I fear the and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown." Fear not, Fear not, thou Wedding-Guest This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all, alone Along on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. THe many men, so beautiful And they all dead did lie And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. Ilooked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burtn away A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snaked, They moved the in tracks of shining white And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam and evey track Was a flash of golden fire O happy living things! No tounge Their beauty might declare; A spring of love gushed from my heart And I blessed them unaware Sure my kind saint took pity on me And I blessed then unaware. THe self-same moment I could pray And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, And sank like led into the sea. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Oh sleep! It is a gentle thing Belowved from pole to pole! TO Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the fentle sleep fro Heaven That slid into my soul. THe silly bucked on the deck That had so long remained I dremt that they were filled with dew And when I awoke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunked in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, could not feel my limbs, Iw as so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep And was a blessed ghost. And soon I heard a roaring wind; It did nto come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails That were so thin and sere. The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, THe wan stars danced between. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like a sedge; And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The moon was at its edge. THe thick black cloud was cleft and still The moon was at its side Like waters shot from some high craf The lightening fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. THe loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightening and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes, IT had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on, Yet never a breeze up-blew The mariners all 'gan work the ropes Where they were wont to do; They raise tiher limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| THe body of my brother's son, Stood by me, knee to knee, The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me. "I fear thee, ancient Mariner" BE calm, thou Wedding Guest! 'Twas not those sould that fled in pain Which to their corses came again But a troop of spirits blest. For when it dawned they dropped their arms And clustered round the mast Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths And from their bodies past. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Around, around, flew each sweet sound Then darted to the sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky lark sing Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| It ceased, yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe Slowly and smoothly went the ship Moved onward from beneath Under the keel nine fathom dep, From the land of mist and snow The spirit slid; and it was he That made the ship to go THe sails at noon left off their tune And the ship stood still also THe Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan stir With a short, uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go She made a sudden bound It flung the bloof into my head And I fell down in a swound. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declae, But ere my living life retunred I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| "Is it he" quoth one "Is this the man?" By him who died on cross With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. THe spirit who bideht by himself In the land of mist and snow He loved the bird that loved the man Who sot him with his bow THe other was a softer voice As soft as honey-dew Quoth he: THe man hath penance done And more penance will do | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| First voice "But tell me, tell me! Speak again! They soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing? Second Voice Still as a slave before his lord THe ocean hath no blast His great bright eye most silently UP to the moon it cast If he may know which way to go For she guides him smooth or grim See brother, see! How graciously She looketh down on him. First voice "But why drive son that ship so fat Without wave or wind? The air is cut away before And clses from behing. Fly brother fly! More high more high! Or we shall be belated. For slow and slow that whip will go When the Mariner's trance is abaed I woke, and we were sailing on AS in a gentlewather 'Twas night, calm night, the moon were high THe dead men stood together All stood together on the deck For a charnel-dungeon filter All fixed on me their stony eyes That in the moon did flitter THe pang, the curse, with which theydied Had never passed away I could not draw my eyes from therein Nor turn them up to pray. And now this spel was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen— | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head Becuas ehe knows, a fightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a windon me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not uponthe sea, In ripple or in shade. It raised by hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears Yet it felt like a welcoming Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship Yet she sailed softly too Sweetly, sweetly, blew the breeze On me alne it blew | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Oh! Dream of joy! Is this indeed THe light-house top I see? Is this the hill? Is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? We drifted o'er the harbor-bar And I with sobs did pray— OR let me be awak my god Or let me sleep away THe harbor bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was streqn! And on the bay the moonlight lay; And the shadow of the moon. THe rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in siltentness The steady weathercock. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were I turned my eyes upon the deck— Oh Christ! What I saw there! Each corse lay flat, lifeless, and flat, And by the hold rood! A man all light, a seraph-man On every corse there stood. The seraph-band each waved his hand It was a heavenlysight They stood as signals to the land Each one a lovely light This seraph-band, each waved his hand No voice did they impart No voice; but oh! The silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heart the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away And I saw a boat appear. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| The Pilot and the Pilot's boy I heard them coming fast Dear Lord in Heaven! It was a joy THe dead men could not blas. I saw a third—I heard his voice Is this the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea How loudly his sweet voice he rears! HE loves to talk with mariners That come from a far countree. He kneels at mourn, and noon, and eve— He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides, The rotted old oak-stump, The skiff boat neared: I heard them talk "Why, this is strange, I trow!" Where are those lights so many and so fair That signal made but now? Strange, by my faith! THe Hermit said, "And they answered not our Cheer! The planks looked warped and see thos sails How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like tot thim Unless perchance it were Brown skeletons of leaves that laf My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That east the she wolf's young." | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; THe boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more derad It reached the ship, it split the bay; THe ship went down like lead. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and Ocean smot Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat Upon the whirl, where sank the ship THe boat spun round and round And all was till, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| I moved my lops—the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; THe holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars; the Pilot's boy Who now doth crazy go Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro Haha quoth he full plain I see the Devil knows how to row. And now, all in my own countree, I stoof on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat And scarcely could he stand. "Oh shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" THe hermit corssed his brow "Say quick quoth he "I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?" | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Forthwith this frame of mind was wrenched With a woeful agony Which forced me to begin my tale And then it let me free Since the, at an uncertain hour That agony returns And till my ghastly tale is told This heart will within me burns. I pass, like nigt, from ladn to land, I have strange power of speech That moment that hi face I see I know the man must hear me To him my tale I teach. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| What loud uproar bursts from the door! THe wedding guests are there But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are; And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer! Oh wedding guest! This soul hath been along ona wide wide sea So lonely 'twas God himself Scarce seemed theret o be O sweter than the marriage –feast 'Tis sweeter far to me To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company! To walk together to the Kirk, And all together pray, while wach to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay! | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Farewell, farewell! But this I tell, To thee, thou Wedding Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well, Both man and bird an dbeast. He prayeth best, who loveth est, All things both great and small For the dear Gd who loveth us He made and loveth all. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| The mariner whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn, A sadder and a wise rman, He rose the morrow morn. | Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 1798. |
| Ere on my bed my limbs I lay It hath not been my use to pray With moving lips or bended knees But silently, by slow degrees, My spirit I to Love compose In humble trust mine eyelids close, With reverential resignation No wish conceived, no thought exprest, Only a sense of supplication, A sense o'er all my soul imprest, That I am weak, yet not unblest, Since in me, round me, every where, Eternal Strenth and Wisdom are. | Coleridge. The Pains of Sleep. 1803. |
| But yetster-night I prayed aloud In anguish and in agony, Up-startling from the fiendish crowd OF shapes and thoughts that torturned me: A lurid light, a trampling throng, Sense of intolerable wrong. | Coleridge. The Pains of Sleep. 1803. |
| And whom I scorned, those only strong! Thirst of revenge, the powerless will Still baffled, and yet burning still! Desire with loathing strangely mixed On wild or hateful objects fixed Fantastic passions! Maddening brawl! And shame and terror or ver all! Deeds to be hid which were not hid Which all confused I could not know Whether I had suffered, or I did: For all seemed guilt, remore, or wor, My own or others still the same Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame. | Coleridge. The Pains of Sleep. 1803. |
| So two nights passed: the night's dismay Saddened and stunned the coming day. Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me Distemper's worse calamity. | Coleridge. The Pains of Sleep. 1803. |
| The third night, when my own loud scream Had waked me from the fiendish dream, O'ercome with sufferings strange | Coleridge. The Pains of Sleep. 1803. |
| I wept as I had been a child; And having thus by tears subdued My anguish to a milder mood, Such punishment, I said, were due To nature's deepliest stained with sin,-- For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within, THe horror of their deeds to view, To know and loathe, yet wish and do! | Coleridge. The Pains of Sleep. 1803. |
| Such griefs with such men well agree, But wherefore, wherefore fall on me? To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed. | Coleridge. The Pains of Sleep. 1803. |
| My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense as though of hemlock I had drunk Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, Bu tbeing too happy in thine happiness— That hou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| O, for a draught of vintage! That hath been Cool'd a lon gage in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance and Provencal song, and sunburtn mirth! | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim. | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret, Here, where men site and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thing, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of soorow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow. | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| Away! Away! For I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his aprds, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the full brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| Tender is the night, And haply the Queen Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Gays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven in with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incese hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows, The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine, Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, THe coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| Darkling, I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Feath, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhym, TO take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, TO cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thoug are pouring forth thy soul abroad In such ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; THe voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emporer and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that founda path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; That same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| Forlorn! The very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! The fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! Adieu! They plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley glades | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| Was it a vision or is it a waking dream? Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep? | Keats. Ode to a Nightingale. 1819. |
| Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time Slyvan historian, who canst thou express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd ledgend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals or of both, In Temp or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstacy? | Keats. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 1819. |
| Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, yet soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: | Keats. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 1819. |
| Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never casnt thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! | Keats. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 1819. |
| Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; | Keats. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 1819. |
| More happy love! More happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoye'd, For ever panting, and forever young, All breathing human passion, far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, a parching tongue. | Keats. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 1819. |
| Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou are deslote, can e'er return. | Keats. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 1819. |
| O Attic shapte! Fair attitude! With brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! | Keats. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 1819. |
| When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe, Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know" | Keats. Ode to a Grecian Urn. 1819. |
| No, no, got not to Lethe, neither twise, Wolf's bane, tight rooted, for its poisonous wine Nor suffer they pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape o fProserpine; Make not your roasary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, or the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the owny owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come to drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. | Keats. Ode on Melancholy. 1819. |
| But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in April shoroud, Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; | Keats. Ode on Melancholy. 1819. |
| Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes | Keats. Ode on Melancholy. 1819. |
| She dwells with Beauty==Beauty that must die, And Joy, whose hadn is ever at his lips Bidding Adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sups: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her Sovran shirne, | Keats. Ode on Melancholy. 1819. |
| Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tounge Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His sould shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. | Keats. Ode on Melancholy. 1819. |
| Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close boson-friend of the maturing usn; 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 haso'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. | Keats. To Autumn. 1819. |
| 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 wiinowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while they hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: | Keats. To Autumn. 1819. |
| And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; OR by a cyder-press, with a patient look. Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. | Keats. To Autumn. 1819. |
| Where are the songs of springs? Ay, where are they? Think no tof 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; | Keats. To Autumn. 1819. |
| And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn' Hedge crickets sing, and now with treble soft The red-brest whistles from a garden0croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. | Keats. To Autumn. 1819. |
| This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thin own heart dry of blood, So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calm'd. See, here it is— I hold it towards you. | Keats. This Living Hand. 1819. |
| Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave A paradise for a sect; the savage too From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep, Guesses at heaven: pity these have not Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf The shadows of melodious utterance. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| But bare of laurel they live, dream , and die; For Poesy along can tell her dreams, With the fine spell of words alone can save Imaginzation from the stable charm And dumb enchantment. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Who alive can say, "Thou art no poet; may'st not tell thy dreams"? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had lov'd And been well nurtured in his mother tongue, Whether the dream not purposed to reherse Be poets or fanatics will be known When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Methought I Stood where trees of every clime Palm, myrtle, oak nad sycamore,a dn beech, With plantane, and spice blossoms, made a screen, In neighborhood of fountains, by tne noise Soft showering in mine ears, and by the touch Of scent, not far from roses. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| For empty shells were scattered on the grass And grape stalks but half bare, and remnants more, Sweet smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know Still was more plenty than the fabled horn Thrice emptied could pour fourth, at banqueting, For Proserpine return'd to her own fields, Where the white heifers low. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| And appetitue more yearning than on earth I ever felt, Growing within, I ate deliciously; And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby Stoof a cool vessel of transparent juice, Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took, And pledging all the mortals of the world, And all the dead whose names are in our lips Drank. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Tat full draught is parent of my theme. No Asian poppy, nor elixir fine Of the soon fading jealous caiphant; No poison gender'd in the close monkish cell To think the scarlet conclave of old men Could have so rapt unwiiling life away. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Among the fragrant husks and berries chrush'd, Upon the grass I struggled hard against The domineering potion; bt in vain, THe cloudy swoom came one, and down I sunk Like a Silenus on an antique vase. How long I slumbered I chance o guess. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| When sense of life returned, I started up, AS if with wings; but the fair trees were gone, THe mossy mound and arbour were no more, I look'd around upon the carved sides Of an old sanctuary with roof august, Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds, Might spread beneath, as o'er the stars of heaven; | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| So old the place was, I remembered non The like upon earth; bwhat I had seen Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers, The superannuations of sunk realms, Or nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds Seem'd bu thte faulture of decrepit things To that eternal doomed monument. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Upon the marbled at my feel there lay Store of strange vessels, and large draperies, Which needs had been dyed abestus wove, Or in that place the moth could not corrupt, So white the linen; so, in some, distince Ran imargeries from a somber loom: All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay Robes, golden tongs, cense, and chafing dish, Girdles, and chains, holy jewelries. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Turning form tehse with aw, once more I raise'd; My eyes to fathom the space every eay; THe embossed roof, the silent massy range Of colums north and south, ending in mist Of nothing, then to eastward, where black gates Were shut against the sunrise evermore. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Then to the wst I look'd an saw far off An image, huge of feature as a cloud, At level of whose feet an altar slept, TO be approached on either side by steps, And barble balustrade, and patient travail, To count with toil the innumerable degrees. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Towards the alter sober-pac'd I went Repressing haste, as to unholy there; And, coming nearer, saw beside the shirne, One ministering and there arose a flame When in mid-May the wickening east wind S Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers And fills the air with so much pleasant health That even the dying man forgets his shroud Wven so that lofty sacrificial fire Sending forth Maian incense spread around Forgetfulness of everything but bliss, And clouded all the altar with soft smok From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard Lanugage pronounced: | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| "If thou cans't ascend These steps, die on that marble where thou are. They flesh, near coursin to the common ust, Will parch for lack of nutriment—they bones Will wither in a few uears, and vanish so That no the quickest eye could find a grain Of what thou now are in that pavement cold The ands of thy short life are spent this hour, And no hand in the universe can turn Thy hour class, if these gummed leaves be burnt Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| I shiriek'd; and the sharp anguish of my shriek Stung my own ears—I strove hard to escape The numbness; strove to gain the lowest step. Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace; the cold Grew stifling, suffocating, at the heart And when I clasp'd my hands, I felt them not One minute before death, my iced food touch'd THe lowest stair; and asit touch'd, life seem'd To pour in at the toes. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| I mounted up, As once fair angels on a ladder flew From thegreen turf to heaven—Holy power" Cried I, approaching near the horned shirne, "What am I that should be so saved from death? What am I that another death come not TO choke my utterance sacrilgeous here? | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Then said the veiled shadow—"Thou hast felt What 'tis to die and live again before thy fated hour. That thou hads't the power to do so Is thy own safety; thou hast dated on they doom" | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| "High prophetess, " Said I "purge off Benign, if so it please they, my mind's fil. None can usurp this height" returned the shade But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery and wil not let them rest, All else who find a haven in the world Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days IF by chance into this fane they come Rot on the pavement where thou rotted'st half. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| "Are there not thousands in the word," said I. Encouraged by the sooth voice of the shade, "Who ove their fellows even to the deat; Who feel the giant agny of the world; And more, like slaves to poor humanity, Labor for the mortal good? I sure shoul see Other men here; but I am here alone" | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| "Those whom thou speak are of no visionaries" Rejoined that coie"—"They are no dreamers weak, They seek no wonder but the human face; No must but a happy noted voice— They come no there they have no thought to come And thou are there for thou are less than they. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe, TO the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing; A fever of thyself—think of the earth; What bliss even in hope is there for thee? What haven? Every creature hath its home; Every sole man hath days of joy and pain, Whether his labours be sublime or low— THe pain alone, the joy alone, distinct: | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Only the dreamer venoms all his days Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve. Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shared Such things as thou are admitted oft Into like gardens thou didst pas erewhile, And suffere'd in these temples; for that cause Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| "That I am favoured for unworthiness By such a propitious parley medicine'd In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice Aye, and could weep for love of such award. So answed I, constinuitng, "If it please Majestic shaow, tell me: sure not all These melodies sung into the world's ear Are useless: sure a poet is a sage; A humanist, a physicial to all men. That I am none I feel, as vultures feel They are no birds when eages aborad | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| What am I then? Thou spakest of my tribe: What tribe?—The tall shade veiled in drooping white Then spake, so much more earnest, than the breath Mov'd the thin linen folds that drooping hung About a golden cense from the hand Pendent—"Art thou not of the dreamer tribe? | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| THe poet and the dreamer are distinct Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes, The one pours our a balm upon the world THe other vexes it". | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| Then shouted I, Spite of myself, and with a Pythia's spleen "Apollo! Faded far flow Apollo! Where is thy misty pestilence to creep Into the dwellings through the door crannies, OF all mock lyrists, large self worshipers Are carless hectroers in a proud bad verse Though I breath dath with them it will be life To seem them sprawl before me into graves Majestic shadow, tell me where I am: Whose altar this; for whom this incense curls: What image is this, whose face I cannot see, For the broad marble knees, and who thou art, Of accent feminie, so courteous. | Keats. The Fall of Hyperion. 1819. |
| "They only served to convince me, how superior humour is to wit in respect to enjoyment..... Would I were with that company instead of yours!" | Keats. Letters. December 21-27. 1817. Negative Cap. |
| I had not a dispute but a disquisition with Dilke, on various subjects; several things dovetailed in my mind, & at once struck me, what quality went ot form a Man of Achievement especially in Literature & which shakespear possessed so enormously—I mean Negative Capability. | Keats. Letters. December 21-27. 1817. Negative Cap. |
| "That is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason." | Keats. Letters. December 21-27. 1817. Negative Cap. |
| "Coleridge, for example, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Pentralium of mystern, from being incapable of remaining content with half knowledge." | Keats. Letters. December 21-27. 1817. Negative Cap. |
| Keats. Letters. December 21-27. 1817. Negative Cap. | Keats. Letters. May 3, 1818. Manson of Many Apts. |
| The first we step into we call the Infant or Thoughtless chamber, in which we remain as long as we do not think. We remain there a long while and notwithstanding the doors of the second chamber remain wide open, showing a bright appearance, we care not to hasten to it; | Keats. Letters. May 3, 1818. Manson of Many Apts. |
| But are at length imperceptibly impelled by the awakening of the thinking principle—within us—we no sooner get into the second chamber, which I shall call the Chamber of Maiden-Thought, than we become intozicated with the light and the atmosphere, we see nothing but pleasant wonders, and think of delaying there for ever in delight: | Keats. Letters. May 3, 1818. Manson of Many Apts. |
| However among the effects this breathing is father of is that that tremendous one of sharpening one's vision into the heart and nature of Man—of convincing ones nerves that the World is full of Misery and Heartbreak, Pain, Sickness, and Oppression—whereby This Chamber of Maiden Thought becomes gradually darken'd and at the same time on all sides of it many doors are set open—but all in dark—all leading to dark passages— | Keats. Letters. May 3, 1818. Manson of Many Apts. |
| we see not the balance of good an evil. We are in amist-we are not in that ste—we feel the "burden of the Mystery" To this point was Wordsworth come, as far as I can conceive when he wrote Tintern Abbey and it seems to me that his Genious is explorative of those dark passages. Nor if we live and go on thinking,we too shall explore them. | Keats. Letters. May 3, 1818. Manson of Many Apts. |
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