Samuel Taylor Coleridge

With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots, Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots; Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue, Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw.

Be that blind bard who on the Chian strand, By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

To know, to esteem, to love—and then to part, Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart!

Never, believe me, Appear the Immortals, Never alone.

The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust; His soul is with the saints, I trust.

The imagination ... that reconciling and mediatory power, which incorporating the reason in images of the sense and organizing (as it were) the flux of the senses by the permanence and self-circling energies of the reason, gives birth to a …

I stood in unimaginable trance And agony that cannot be remembered.

I have heard of reasons manifold Why Love must needs be blind, But this the best of all I hold,— His eyes are in his mind.What outward form and feature are He guesseth but in part; But what within is good and fair

And looking to the Heaven, that bends above you, How oft! I bless the Lot, that made me love you.

And in Life's noisiest hour, There whispers still the ceaseless Love of Thee, The heart's Self-solace and soliloquy. You mould my Hopes, you fashion me within.

Iambics march from short to long;— With a leap and a bound the swift Anapaests throng.

Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks.

I could not know, Whether I suffered, or I did: For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe, My own or others still the same Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame!

What is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole, Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he— 'I love my Love, and my Love loves me!'

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan The present works of present man — A wild and dreamlike trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

Tranquillity! thou better name Than all the family of Fame!

A charm For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom No sound is dissonant which tells of life.

When the last rook Beat its straight path along the dusky air

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, This lime-tree bower my prison!

Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows, Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.