George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
Whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.
Whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.
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.
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!
There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's read more
There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.
Hope, withering, fled--and Mercy sighed farewell.
Hope, withering, fled--and Mercy sighed farewell.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred read more
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
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.
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!
Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its read more
Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.
