The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me And I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow. And the storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me,…
-
-
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night’s decay Ushers in a drearier day. Emily Brontë Photo: PdM
-
After dark vapours have oppressed our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relievèd of its pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May; The eyelids with the…
-
There is strange music in the stirring wind, When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood’s cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere. If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Thou late…
-
The Spacious Firmament on high, With all the blue Ethereal Sky, And spangled Heav’ns, a Shining Frame, Their great Original proclaim: Th’ unwearied Sun, from day to day, Does his Creator’s Pow’r display, And publishes to every Land The Work of an Almighty Hand. Soon as the Evening Shades prevail,…
-
They say swans mate for life & I hope if we are ever in a crowd like this you find me, with your eyes closed, hands outstretched — like wings, like feathers, to catch my fall. by Kristiana Reed Source: Great British Coast
-
O AUTUMN, laden with fruit, and stainèd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits…
-
O THOU who passest thro’ our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.…
-
O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Thro’ the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell each other, and the list’ning Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turnèd Up to…
-
‘O WINTER! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.’ He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathèd In ribbèd steel; I…
-
William Blake (1757–1827). Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening, Now, whilst 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 thy…