Keats
The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep;
The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told!
The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold
To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep;
It is midsummer, but the air is cold;
Can it be death? Alas, beside the fold
A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep.
Lo! in the moonlight gleams a marble white,
On which I read: "Here lieth one whose name
Was writ in water." And was this the meed
Of his sweet singing? Rather let me write:
"The smoking flax before it burst to flame
Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Vous avez aimé cette poésie ? faites la connaître !
D'autres poésies de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Keats
The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep;
The...
Jugurtha
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
Cried the African monarch,...
It is not Always May
No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.
...
Introduction To The Song Of Hiawatha
Should you ask me,
whence these stories?
Whence...
I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar...
Hymn to the Night
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep...
Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner
When the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its...
Hunting Of Pau-Puk Keewis, The
Full of wrath was Hiawatha
When he came into the...
Holidays
The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in...
Hiawatha's Wooing
"As unto the bow the cord is,
So unto the man is...
Précédentes poésies
Words of Comfort to Be Scratched on a Mirror
Helen of Troy had a wandering glance;
Sappho's restriction...
Wisdom
This I say, and this I know:
Love has seen the last of...
Walter Savage Landor
Upon the work of Walter Landor
I am unfit to write with...
Wail
Love has gone a-rocketing.
That is not the worst;
I...
Victoria
Dear dead Victoria
Rotted cosily;
In excelsis...
