I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And “thou shalt not” writ over the door; So I turn’d to the Garden of Love, That so […]
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews
Piping down the valleys wild Piping songs of pleasant glee On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me, “Pipe a song about a Lamb”; So I piped with merry cheer. “Piper pipe that song again” So I piped, he wept to hear. “Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe Sing thy
Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening, Now, while the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the Blue curtains of the sky, scatter the silver dew On every flower that shuts its
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky: The dew shall weep thy fall tonight; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye: Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of
A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears, Made of a heart, and cemented with tears: Whose parts are as thy hand did frame; No workman’s tool bath touched the same. A HEART alone Is such a stone, As nothing but Thy power doth cut. Wherefore each part Of my hard heart Meets in this frame,
Fame’s pillar here at last we set, Out-during marble, brass or jet; Charmed and enchanted so As to withstand the blow Of overthrow; Nor shall the seas, Or outrages Of storms, o’erbear What we uprear; Tho’ kingdoms fall, This pillar never shall Decline or waste at all; But stand or ever by his own Firm
A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness.A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and thereEnthralls the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoestring, in whose tie I see a
It is not growing like a tree,In bulk, doth make man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald and tall. A lily of a dayIs fairer far in MayAlthough it falls and dies that nightIt was the plant and flower of lightIn small proportions we just
Though I am young, and cannot tellEither what Death or Love is well,Yet I have heard they both bear darts,And both do aim at human hearts.And then again, I have been toldLove wounds with heat, as Death with cold;So that I fear they do but bringExtremes to touch, and mean one thing. As in a
Hear me, 0 God! A broken heart,Is my best part; Use still thy rod,That I may prove Therein thy love. If thou hadst not been stern to me,But left me free, I had forgotMyself and thee. For sin’s so sweet, as minds ill bentRarely repent, until they meetTheir punishment. Who more can crave than thou
When daffodils begin to peer,With heigh! the doxy over the dale,Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year;For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,With heigh! the sweet birds,Oh, how they sing!Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;For a quart of ale is a dish for
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o’ the great;Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is
When that I was and a little tiny boy,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,A foolish thing was but a toy,For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came to man’s estate,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,‘Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,For the rain it raineth every day.
Come away, come away, death,And in sad cypress let me be laid.Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O, prepare it!My part of death, no one so trueDid share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there be strown.Not
Click one of our contacts below to chat on WhatsApp
