A hundred wings are dropt as soft as one
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run
Ah! what avails the sceptred race
A juggler long through all the town
Alexis, here she stayed; among these pines
All thoughts, all passions, all delights
All travellers at first incline

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom
Although I enter not

And are ye sure the news is true?
An hour with thee!-When earliest day
Another year!-another deadly blow!
Art thou pale for weariness

As, by some tyrant's stern command

As due by many titles, I resign

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep

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Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows

Ask me why I send you here

A slanting ray of evening light

As near Porto-Bello lying

A steed, a steed of matchless speed

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Awake, Æolian lyre, awake

Come Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace

Come up
from the fields, father; here's a letter from our Pete
Conceit, begotten by the eyes

Condemned to Hope's delusive mine

Dear Love, let me this evening die

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Die down, O dismal day, and let me live

E'en such is time; which takes on trust
Ere, in the northern gale.

Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Fair Star of Evening; Splendour of the West
Fair stood the wind for France

False world, good night, since thou hast brought

False world, thou liest; thou canst not lend

Fare well man's dark last journey o'er the deep

Farewell, too little and too lately known

Fear no more the heat o' the sun

First-born of Chaos, who so fair didst come

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length
Forget not yet the tried intent

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white.

Friend faber, cast me a round hollow ball

From you have I been absent in the spring

Great Monarch of the world, from whose power springs
Green little vaulter on the sunny grass.

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song.

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed
If I had thought thou could'st have died

If the base violence of wicked men

If thou wilt ease thine heart

If to be absent were to be

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In this marble buried lies

In this marble casket lies

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine

I press not to the choir, nor dare I greet

I saw where in the shroud did lurk

Is this the spot where Rome's eternal foe

I stood within the grave's o'er-shadowing vault
I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free

It is not beauty I demand

It is not growing like a tree

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile
I weigh not fortune's frown or smile

I were unkind unless that I did shed
I will not praise the often-flattered rose
I wish I were where Helen lies

Jerusalem, my happy home

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Joy for the promise of our loftier homes

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Last night, among his fellow roughs

Lay a garland on my hearse

Like as the damask rose you see

Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome

Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth

Let him that will, ascend the tottering seat

Like as a huntsman after weary chase

Like to Diana in her summer weed

Little charm of placid mien

Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade