Samuel Taylor Coleridge

'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
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'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea.

Reviewers are usually people who would have been poets,
historians, biographers, etc., if they could: they have tried
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Reviewers are usually people who would have been poets,
historians, biographers, etc., if they could: they have tried
their talents at one or the other, and have failed; therefore
they turn critics.

So lonely 'twas that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

So lonely 'twas that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, read more

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 sunthaw; whether the eve-drops fall,
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Of if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.