Emotions and Feelings

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

And can I ever bid these joys farewell? Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife Of human hearts.

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead— When the cloud is scattered The rainbow’s glory is shed.

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight!

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight!

Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure.

Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure.

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world’s slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain.

He hath awakened from the dream of life.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal!

Ah woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year.

I weep for Adonais [John Keats] 4 —he is dead! Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness, From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number— Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you— Ye are many—they are few.

He tossed them human hearts to chew.

I met Murder on the way— He had a mask like Castlereagh. 3

Hell is a city much like London— A populous and smoky city.

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright.

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

Men of England, wherefore plow For the lords who lay ye low?