literatura fragmenty całość | Quizlet

What dire offense from amorous causes springs,

What mighty contests rise from trivial things,

I sing - This verse to Carvll, Muse! is due:

This, even Belinda may vouchsafe to view:

Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,

If she inspire, and he approve my lays.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel

A well-bred lord to assault a gentle belle?

Oh, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,

Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?

In tasks so bold can little men engage,

And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage?

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray,

And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day.

Now lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake,

And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake:

Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground,

And the pressed watch returned a silver sound.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Belinda still her downy pillow pressed,

Her guardian Sylph prolonged the balmy rest.

Twas he had summoned to her silent bed

The morning dream that hovered o'er her head.

A youth more glittering than a birthnight beau

(That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow)

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay,

And thus in whispers saod, or seemed to say:

"Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care

Of thousands bright inhabitants of air!

If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought,

Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught,

Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen,

The silver token, and the circled green,

Of virgins visited by angel powers,

With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flowers,

Hear and believe! thy own importance know,

Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.

Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed,

To maids alone and children are revealed:

What though no credit doubting wits may give?

The fair and innocent shall still believe.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly,

The light militia of the lower sky:

These, though unseen, are ever on the wing,

Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring.

Think what an equipage thou hast in air,

And view with scorn two pages and a chair."

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

As now your own, our beings were of old,

And once enclosed in woman's beauteous mold;

Thence, by a soft transition, we repair

From earthly vehicles to these of air.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled,

That all her vanities at once are dead:

Succeeding vanities she still regards,

And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive,

And love of ombre, after death survive.

For when the Fair in all their pride expire,

To their first elements their souls retire:

The sprites of fiery termagants in flame

Mount up, and take a Salamander's name.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Soft yielding minds to water glide away,

And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental tea.

The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome,

In search of mischief still on earth to roam.

The light coquettes ub Sylphs aloft repair,

And sport and flutter in the fields of air.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

"Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste

Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embraced:

For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease

Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.

What guards the purity of melting maids,

In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,

Safe from the treacherous friend, the darking spark,

The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,

When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,

When music softens, and when dancing fires?

Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,

Though Honor is the word with men below."

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,

For life predestined to the Gnomes' embrace.

These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,

When offers are disdained, and love denied:

Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain,

While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train,

And garters, stars, and coronets appear,

And in soft sounds, 'your Grace' salutes their ear.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

This these that early taint the female soul,

Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll,

Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know,

And little hearts to flutter at beau.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

"Oft, when the world imagine women stray,

The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way,

Through all the giddy circle they pursue,

And old impertinence expel by new.

What tender maid but must a victim fall

To one man's treat, but for another's ball?

When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand,

If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?

With varying vanities, from every part,

They shift the moving toyshop of their heart;

Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,

Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.

This erring mortals levity may call;

Oh, blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

"Of these am I, who thy protection claim,

A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.

Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air,

In the clear mirror of thy ruling star

I saw, alas! some dread event impend,

Ere to the main this morning sun descend,

But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or where:

Warned by the Sylp, O pious maid, beware!

This to disclosure is all thy guardian can:

Beware of all, but most beware of Man!"

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

With hairy springes we the birds betray,

Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,

Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,

And beauty draws us with a single hair.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain,

(But airy substance soon unites again)

The meeting points the sacred hair dissever

From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,

And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;

What then remains but well our pow'r to use,

And keep good-humour still whate'er we lose?

And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,

When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

For, after all the murders of your eye,

When, after millions slain, yourself shall die:

When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,

And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,

This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,

And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Here files of pins extend their shining rows,

Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux.

Now awful Beauty puts on all its arms;

The fair each moment rises in her charms,

Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,

And calls forth all the wonders of her face;

Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,

And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,

Nourished two locks which graceful hung behind

In equal curls, and well conspired to deck

With shining ringlest her smooth ivory neck.

Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,

And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.

With hairy springes we the birds betray,

Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,

Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,

And beauty draws us with a single hair.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

"Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,

His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,

Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins,

Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins,

Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,

Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye:

Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,

While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain,

Or alum styptics with contracting power

Shrink his thin essence like a riveled flower:

Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel

The giddy motion of the whirling mill,

In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow,

And tremble at the sea that froths below!"

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Behold, four Kings in majesty revered,

With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;

And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flower,

The expressive emblem of their softer power;

Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,

Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;

And parti-colored troops, a shining train,

Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.

The skillful nymph reviews her force with care;

"Let Spades be trumps!" she said, and trumps they were.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought

The close recesses of the virgin's thought;

As on the nosegay in her breast reclined,

He watched the ideas rising in her mind,

Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art,

An earthly lover lurking at her heart.

Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,

Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes,

And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies.

Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,

When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last;

Or when rich china vessels fallen from high,

In glittering dust and painted fragments lie! zeugma

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

A constant vapor o'er the palace flies;

Strange phantoms, rising as the mists arise;

Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades,

Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.

Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,

Pale specters, gaping tombs, and purple fires;

Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,

And crystal domes, and angels in machines.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

Unnumbered throungs on every side are seen

Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen.

Here living teapots stand, one arm held out,

One bent; the handle this, and that the spout:

A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks:

Here sighs a jar, and there a goose pie talks;

Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works,

And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for corks.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam?

Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at home!

'Twas this the morning omens seemed to tell;

Thrice from my trembling hand the patch box fell;

The tottering china shook without a wind,

Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!

A Sylph too warned me of these threats of fate,

In mystic visions, now believed too late!

See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!

My hands shall rend what e'en thy rapine spares.

These in two sable ringlets taught to break,

Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck.

The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone,

And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;

Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands,

And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.

Oh, hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize

Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

But since, alas! frail Beauty must decay,

Curled or uncurled, since Locks will turn to gray;

Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,

And she who scorns a Man must die a Maid;

What then remains but well our Power to use,

And keep good Humour still whate'er we lose?

And trust me, dear, good humour can prevail

When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes roll;

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

For, after all the murders of your eye,

When, after millions slain, yourself shall die:

When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,

And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,

This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,

And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.

Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Augustan era

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 chear;

"Piper pipe that song again" -

So I piped, he wept to hear.

William Blake, Introduction from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

"Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe

Sing thy songs of happy chear";

So I sung the same again

While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper sit thee down and write

In a book that all may read" -

So he vanish'd from my sight.

William Blake, Introduction from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And i stain'd the water clear,

And I wrote my happy songs

Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake, Introduction from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

Little Lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Gave thee life & bid thee feed,

By the stream & o'er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight

Softest clothing wooly bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice!

William Blake, The Lamb from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,

Little Lamb I'll tell thee!

He is called by thy name,

For he calls himself a Lamb;

He is meek & he is mild,

He became a little child;

I a child & thou a lamb,

We are called by his name.

Little Lamb God bless thee.

Little Lamb God bless thee.

William Blake, The Lamb from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

When my mother died I was very young,

And my father sold me while yet my tongue

Could scarcely cry " 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"

So your chimney I sweep & in soot I sleep.

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head

That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shav'd, so I said,

"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare,

You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

And so he was quiet & that very night,

As Tom was a-sleeping he had such a sight!

That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack,

Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black;

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,

And he open'd the coffins & set them all free;

Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,

And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,

They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.

And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,

He'd have God for his father & never want joy.

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark

And got with our bags & our brushes to work.

Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm;

So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

The children walking two & two, in red & blue & green;

Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow,

Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow.

William Blake, Holy Thursday from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

O what a multitude they seemd, these flowers of London town!

Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own.

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,

Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands.

William Blake, Holy Thursday from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among.

Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor;

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

William Blake, Holy Thursday from Songs of Innocence, Romanticism

Hear the voice of the Bard!

Who Present, Past, & Future sees;

Whose ears have heard

The Holy Word

That walk'd among the ancient trees;

William Blake, Introduction from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

Calling the lapsed Soul

And weeping in the evening dew,

That might controll

The starry pole,

And fallen, fallen light renew!

William Blake, Introduction from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

"O Earth, O Earth, return!

Arise from out the dewy grass;

Night is worn,

And the morn

Rises from the slumberous mass.

William Blake, Introduction from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

"Turn away no more;

Why wilt thou turn away?

The starry floor

The watry shore

Is giv'n thee till the break of day."

William Blake, Introduction from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

Is this a holy thing to see,

In a rich and fruitful land,

Babes reduced to misery,

Fed with cold and usurous hand?

William Blake, Holy Thursday from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

Is that trembling cry a song?

Can it be a song of joy?

And so many children poor?

It is a land of poverty!

William Blake, Holy Thursday from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

And their sun does never shine,

And their fields are bleak & bare,

And their ways are fill'd with thorns;

It is eternal winter there.

William Blake, Holy Thursday from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

For where-e'er the sun does shine,

And where-e'er the rain does fall,

Babe can never hunger there,

Nor poverty the mind appall.

William Blake, Holy Thursday from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

A little black thing among the snow

Crying " 'weep, weep," in notes of woe!

"Where are thy father & mother? say?"

"They are both gone up to the church to pray.

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

"Because I was happy upon the heath,

And smil'd among the winter's snow;

They clothed me in the clothes of death,

And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

"And because I am happy, & dance & sing,

They think they have done me no injury,

And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King,

Who make up a heaven of our misery."

William Blake, The Chimney Sweeper from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake, The Tyger from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

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?

William Blake, The Tyger from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

William Blake, The Tyger from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

William Blake, The Tyger from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

When the stars threw down their spears

And water'd heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

William Blake, The Tyger from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy dearful symmetry?

William Blake, The Tyger from Songs of Experience, Romanticism

- A simple Child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

I met a little cottage Girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

She has a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

- Her beauty made me glad.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all", she said,

And wondering looked at me.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

Sweet Maid, how this may be."

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

Then did the little Maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree."

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five."

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little Maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"And often after sun-set, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"So in the church-yard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little Maid's reply,

"O Master! we are seven."

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

William Wordsworth, We Are Seven, Romanticism

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

William Wordsworth, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (Daffodils), Romanticism

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

William Wordsworth, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (Daffodils), Romanticism

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

William Wordsworth, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (Daffodils), Romanticism

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (Daffodils), Romanticism

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:

And, when I crossed the wild,

I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary child.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor,

--The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

You yet may spy the fawn at play,

The hare upon the green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

"To-night will be a stormy night--

You to the town must go;

And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your mother through the snow."

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

"That, Father! will I gladly do:

'Tis scarcely afternoon--

The minster-clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon!"

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

At this the Father raised his hook,

And snapped a faggo*-band;

He plied his work;-- and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

Not blither is the mountain roe:

With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

The storm came on before its time:

She wandered up and down:

And many a hill did Lucy climb:

But never reached the town.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

They wept -- and, turning homeward, cried,

"In heaven we all shall meet'

-- When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone-wall;

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

And then an open field they crossed:

The marks were still the same;

They tracked them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none!

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

--Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

William Wordsworth, Lucy Gray, Romanticism

FIVE years have passes; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

With a sweet inland murmur. Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

Which on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion: and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

William Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey, Romanticism

Though absent long,

These forms of beauty have not been to me,

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:

But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,

And passing even into my purer mind

With tranquil restoration:—feelings too

Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,

As may have had no trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man's life;

His little, nameless, unremembered, acts

Of kindness and of love.

William Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey, Romanticism