Library 
. . . . . . Think but whither Now you can go; what you can do to live; How near you have barred all ports to your own succour. Except this one that here I open, love. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. The mos
Search
. . . . . . Think but whither Now you can go; what you can do to live; How near you have barred all ports to your own succour. Except this one that here I open, love. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. The mos
Repentance is a tender sprite; If aught on earth have heavenly might, 'Tis lodged within her silent tear. WORDSWO…
So loth we part from all we love, From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts, where'er we rove, To those …
I am not One who much or oft delights To season my Friends with personal talk,— Of Friends who live within an easy walk…
The music Of man's fair composition best accords, When 'tis in consort, not in single strains: My heart has b…
But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshipped image from its base, To give to me the…
It is the same, for be it joy or sorrow. The path of its departure still is free; Man's yesterday can ne'er b…
The world had just begun to steal Each hope that led me lightly on, I felt not as I used to feel, And life grew dark an…
Like gentle rains on the dry plains, Making that green which late was grey; Or like the sudden moon, that stains Some g…
Comments (0)