So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

My native Land — Good Night!"

(From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimages")

My Soul is Dark

G.G.Byron

My soul is dark — Oh! quickly string

The harp I yet can brook to hear;

And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.

If in this heart a hope be dear,

That sound shall charm it forth again:

If in these eyes there lurk a tear,

"Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,

Nor let thy notes of joy be first:

I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep

Or else this heavy heart will burst;

For it hath been by sorrow nursed,

And ached in sleepless silence long:

And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,

And break at once — or yield to song.

She is not Fair

Hartley Coleridge

She is not fair to outward view,

As many maidens be;

Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.

Oh, then I saw her eye was bright,

A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold —

To mine they ne'er reply;

And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye.

Her very frowns are sweeter far

Than smiles of other maidens are.

Those Evening Bells

Th.Moore

Those evening bells!

Those evening bells!

How many a tale their music tells,

Of love, and home, and that sweet time,

When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away!

And many a heart that then was gay

Within the tomb now darkly dwells

And hears no more those evening bells!

And so 'twill be when I am gone,

That tuneful peal will still ring on,

While other bards shall walk these dells,

And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

The Daffodils

W.Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay;

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee.

A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company;

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,