work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
3327,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2005-05-27 00:00:00 UTC,He plants himself in all her Nerves
Just as a Husbandman his mould
And she becomes his dwelling place
And Garden fruitful seventy fold
An aged Shadow soon he fades
Wandring round an Earthly Cot
Full filled all with gems & gold
Which he by industry had got
And these are the gems of the Human Soul
The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye
The countless gold of the akeing heart
The martyrs groan & the lovers sigh,,8596,•From the Pickering Manuscript.,"""And these are the gems of the Human Soul""","",2009-09-14 19:33:39 UTC,""
3327,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""gold"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-05-27 00:00:00 UTC,He plants himself in all her Nerves
Just as a Husbandman his mould
And she becomes his dwelling place
And Garden fruitful seventy fold
An aged Shadow soon he fades
Wandring round an Earthly Cot
Full filled all with gems & gold
Which he by industry had got
And these are the gems of the Human Soul
The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye
The countless gold of the akeing heart
The martyrs groan & the lovers sigh,,8597,•From the Pickering Manuscript.,"""The countless gold of the akeing heart""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:33:39 UTC,""
5997,"","Searching ""throne"" and ""reason"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2004-07-19 00:00:00 UTC,"""There writhing Mania sits on Reason's throne,
Or Melancholy marks it for her own,
Sheds o'er the scene a voluntary gloom,
Requests oblivion, and demands the tomb.
And last Association's trains suggest
Ideal ills, that harrow up the breast,
Call for the dead from Time's o'erwhelming main,
And bid departed Sorrow live again.
",,15932,"","""[W]rithing Mania sits on Reason's throne, /Or Melancholy marks it for her own""","",2009-09-14 19:45:07 UTC,""
6059,"","Searching ""stamp"" and ""thought"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-04-09 00:00:00 UTC,"Oft have I seen yon solitary man
Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow
Sits melancholy, mark'd with decent pride,
As it would fly the busy taunting world,
And feed upon reflection. Sometimes, near
The foot of an old tree, he takes his seat,
And with the page of legendary lore
Cheats the dull hour, while Evening's sober eye
Looks tearful as it closes. In the dell
By the swift brook he loiters, sad and mute,
Save when a struggling sigh, half murmur'd, steals
From his wrung bosom. To the rising Moon,
His eye rais'd wistfully, expression fraught,
He pours the cherish'd anguish of his soul,
Silent, yet eloquent: For not a sound
That might alarm the night's lone centinel,
The dull-ey'd Owl, escapes his trembling lip,
Unapt in supplication. He is young,
And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth,
That all its fires are faded. What is He?
And why, when morning sails upon the breeze,
Fanning the blue hill's summit, does he stay
Loit'ring and sullen, like a truant boy,
Beside the woodland glen; or stretch'd along
On the green slope, watch his slow wasting form
Reflected, trembling, on the river's breast?",,16054,"","""He is young, / And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth, / That all its fires are faded""","",2009-09-14 19:45:33 UTC,""
6076,"","Searching ""breast"" and ""watch"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2006-11-16 00:00:00 UTC,"One dreary night, when winter's icy breath
Half petrified the scene, when not a star
Gleam'd o'er the bleak infinity of space,
Sudden the Hermit started from his couch
With painful agitation. On his cheek
The blanch'd interpreter of horror mute
Sat terribly impressive! In his breast
The ruddy fount of life convulsive flow'd,
And his broad eyes, fix'd motionless as death,
Gaz'd vacantly aghast! His feeble lamp
Was wasting rapidly; the biting gale
Pierc'd the thin texture of his narrow cell;
And silence, like a fearful centinel
Marking the peril which awaited near,
Conspir'd with sullen night to wrap the scene
In tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose, and thrice
His feet recoil'd; and still the livid flame
Lengthen'd and quiver'd as the moaning wind
Pass'd thro' the rushy crevice, while his heart
Beat, like the death-watch, in his shudd'ring breast.
(Cf. pp. 91-2 in 1800 Lyrical Tales)",,16085,"","""Thrice he rose, and thrice / His feet recoil'd; and still the livid flame / Lengthen'd and quiver'd as the moaning wind / Pass'd thro' the rushy crevice, while his heart / Beat, like the death-watch, in his shudd'ring breast.""","",2013-10-15 17:59:06 UTC,""
7432,"",Reading,2013-06-13 16:17:16 UTC,"Sonnet LXXXV.
The fairest flowers are gone! for tempests fell,
And with wild wing swept some unblown away,
While on the upland lawn or rocky dell
More faded in the day-star's ardent ray;
And scarce the copse, or hedge-row shade beneath,
Or by the runnel's grassy course appear
Some lingering blossoms of the earlier year,
Mingling bright florets, in the yellow wreath
That Autumn with his poppies and his corn
Binds on his tawny temples--So the schemes
Rais'd by fond Hope in youth's unclouded morn,
While sanguine youth enjoys delusive dreams,
Experience withers; till scarce one remains
Flattering the languid heart, where only Reason reigns!",,20623,"","""So the schemes / Rais'd by fond Hope in youth's unclouded morn, / While sanguine youth enjoys delusive dreams, / Experience withers; till scarce one remains / Flattering the languid heart, where only Reason reigns!""","",2013-06-13 16:17:35 UTC,""
7639,"",Reading at RPO,2013-08-20 16:35:38 UTC," My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
(ll. 39-46)",,22511,"","""I may not hope from outward forms to win / The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.""","",2013-08-20 16:35:38 UTC,""
7639,"",Reading at RPO,2013-08-20 16:37:39 UTC,"O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth--
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
(ll. 47-58)",,22512,"","""Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth / A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud / Enveloping the Earth--""","",2013-08-20 16:37:39 UTC,""
7639,"",Reading at RPO,2013-08-20 16:39:06 UTC,"O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud--
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud--
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
(ll. 59-75)",,22513,"","""O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me / What this strong music in the soul may be!""","",2013-08-20 16:39:06 UTC,""
7639,"",Reading at RPO,2013-08-20 16:40:47 UTC,"Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds--
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings--all is over--
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,--
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
(ll. 94-125)",,22514,"","""Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, / Reality's dark dream! / I turn from you, and listen to the wind, / Which long has raved unnoticed.""","",2013-08-20 16:40:47 UTC,""