To the Nightingale

Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!
How many Bards in city garret pent,
While at their window they with downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen
(Those hoarse unfeather’d Nightingales of Time!),
How many wretched Bards address thy name,
And hers, the full-orb'd Queen that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.

S.T. Coleridge

Love

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.


Omar Khayyam

A Great Poetic Work
Translated by Edward FitzGerald

Red Indians in Denmark

Red Indians in Denmark

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Love

It was as calm as this, that happy night
When Mary, thou, and I together were,
The low decaying Fire our only Light,
And listen’d to the Stillness of the Air!
O that affectionate and blameless Maid,
Dear Mary! on her Lap my head she lay’d –
Her Hand was on my Brow,
Even as my own is now;
And on my Check, I felt the eye-lash play.
Such joy I had, that I may truly say,
My spirit was awe-stricken with the Excess
And trance-like Depth of its brief Happiness.

From Dejection / A Letter / on selected poetry of S.T. Coleridge