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St. Agnes' Eve.
Music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor.
And lucent sirups, tinct with cinnamon.
Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tones.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Hyperion. Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.
Sonnet to Haydon.
Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings.
When a new planet swims into his ken;
He stared at the Pacific - and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note.
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!
The Course of Time.
Book iv. Line 689.
He was a man
Book viii. Line 632.
With one hand he put A penny
in the urn of poverty, And with the other took a shilling out.
Her breathing soft and low,
Kept heaving to and fro.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied ;
The Bridge of Sighs.
Take her up tenderly,
Alas! for the rarity
Even God's providence
By the gusty thieves,
Getteth short of leaves.
Song of the Shirt. It is not linen you ’re wearing out,
But human creatures' lives.
My tears must stop, for every drop,
Hinders needle and thread.
Ode to Melancholy. And there is ev'n a happiness That makes the heart afraid.
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
Withered and shaken,
I remember, I remember.
Miss Kilmansegg. Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.