Romantics 2 Flashcards
O! wind of the west, we wait for you. Blow, blow! I have wooed you so, But never a favour you bestow. You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen.
The Song My Paddle Signs / Email Pauline Johnson
I have said that Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings; it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till by a species of reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.
Lyrical Ballads / William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration, the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present, the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire: the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the World.
A Defence of Poetry / Percy Shelley
O! the one Life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where –
The Eolian Harp / Samuel Coleridge
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!
Ode to the West Wind / Percy Shelley
————–A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
We Are Seven / William Wordsworth
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Ode to a Nightingale / John Keats
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
The Lamb / William Blake
“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”
We Are Seven / William Wordsworth
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
Ode to the West Wind / Percy Shelley
