Poems by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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If Pegasus will let thee only ride him, Spurning my clumsy efforts to o'erstride him, Some fresh expedient the Muse will try, And walk on stilts, although she cannot fly.
Now as Heaven is my Lot, they're the Pests of the Nation!
'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!
The poet in his lone yet genial hour
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
In Köhln, a town of monks and bones,
Since all, that beat about in Nature's range,
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame;
I have experienc'd
The only sure friend of declining life
Stop, Christian passer-by: Stop, child of God,
A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
(Beareth all things. - 1 Cor. xiii. 7.)
The body,
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Italic sentences below are Samuel Taylor Coleridge's.
If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
The sole true Something, This! In Limbo Den
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
And this reft house is that the which he built,
With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,
All look and likeness caught from earth
The butterfly the ancient Grecians made
... Finally, what is Reason? You have often asked me; and this is my answer:
Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest Rose
Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
And this place our forefathers made for man!
Of late, in one of those most weary hours,
Scene - A spacious drawing-room, with music-room adjoining.
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
And in Life's noisiest hour,
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no
My pensive SARA! thy soft cheek reclined
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
An Allegory
It may indeed be fantasy when I
A blesséd lot hath he, who having passed
Friend of the Wise! and Teacher of the Good!
Resembles Life what once was held of Light,
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair -
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,