To Solitude
21 September 2007
Vol. 7, No. 3
poetry, classic, sonnet, rhyme
O solitude! If I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings;—climb with me the steep,
Nature's Observatory
Ode on Melancholy
20 July 2006
Vol. 6, No. 2
poetry, classic
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine…
Ode to Pysche
19 July 2006
Vol. 6, No. 2
poetry, classic
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear…
When I have fears that I may cease to be
15 June 2006
Vol. 6, No. 2
poetry, classic, sonnet, rhyme
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charact'ry
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain…
The Human Seasons
14 June 2006
Vol. 6, No. 2
poetry, classic, sonnet, rhyme
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:—
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span…
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art—
13 June 2006
Vol. 6, No. 2
poetry, classic, sonnet, rhyme
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite…
To Charles Brown on November 30, 1820
14 May 2005
Vol. 5, No. 1
nonfiction, classic, letter
here is one thought enough to kill me—I have been well, healthy, alert, &c, walking with her—and now—the knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and shade, all that information (primitive sense) necessary for a poem are great enemies to the recovery of the stomach. There, you rogue, I put you to the torture…
To Richard Woodhouse on October 27, 1818
23 April 2005
Vol. 5, No. 1
nonfiction, classic, letter, poetic theory
A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity—he is continually in for—and filling some other Body—The Sun, the Moon, the Sea, and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute—the poet has none; no identity—he is certainly the most unpoetical of all of God's Creatures.
To John Taylor on February 27, 1818
9 April 2005
Vol. 5, No. 1
nonfiction, classic, letter, poetic theory
…but it is easier to think what Poetry should be than to write it…
To J.H. Reynolds on February 19, 1818
28 March 2005
Vol. 5, No. 1
nonfiction, classic, letter, poetic theory
I have an idea that a Man might pass a very pleasant life in this manner—let him on any certain day read a certain Page of full Poesy or distilled Prose and let him wander with it, and muse upon it, and reflect from it, and bring home to it, and prophesy upon it, and dream upon it—untill it becomes stale—but when will it do so? Never…
To Benjamin Bailey on November 22, 1817
19 March 2005
Vol. 5, No. 1
nonfiction, classic, letter, poetic theory
I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination—What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth—whether it existed before or not…