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Lyrical Ballads
Quotations from Lyrical Ballads
| Question | Answer |
|---|---|
| What if these | barren bows the bee not loves |
| If the wind breathe soft | the curling waves that break against the shore, shall lull thy mind |
| ----Who he was | Change in topic, Lines left upon a seat in a Yew Tree |
| Mossy sod | Land description |
| To bend its arms | in circling shade |
| I well remember | No common soul genius nurs'd |
| against all enemies prepared; | All but neglect |
| Spirit damped | turned away |
| with food of pride | sustained his soul In solitude. |
| Stranger! | Urging to listen |
| this place had | charms for him |
| morbid pleasure | nourished |
| emblem of | his own unfruitful life |
| mournful | joy |
| on visionary views | would fancy feed |
| Till his eye | streamed with tears |
| seat | his only monument |
| Pride Howe'er disguised | in its own majesty is littleness |
| he, who feels contempt for any living thing | hath facuties which he has never used |
| true knowledge | leads to love |
| true dignity abides with him alon Who... | Can still suspect, and revere imself In lowliness of heart. |
| No cloud, | no relique of the sunken day |
| A balmy night! | enthusiasm for night time |
| we shall | find pleasure |
| Most musical, | most melancholy Bird! (Milton) |
| A melancholy Bird? | O idle thought! |
| In nature | there is nothing melancholy |
| grevious wrong | rejected love |
| nam'ed these notes | a melancholy strain |
| many a poet | echoes the conceit |
| we have learnt | a different lore: |
| Nature's sweet voices | always full of love and joyance! |
| merry | Nightingale |
| delicious | notes |
| My dear | Babe |
| I deem it wise to make | him Nature's play mate. |
| he beholds the moon, | and hush'd at once |
| suspends his sobs, | and laughs most silently |
| sweet | Nightingale! |
| Nightingale is | blank verse, conversational |
| And this place | our forfarthers made for man! |
| the process of our | love and wisdom |
| Is this | the only cure? |
| Merciful | God! |
| Ignorance and | parching poverty |
| His energier | roll back upon his heart |
| Stagnate and corrupt; | till changed to poison |
| Loathsome | plague-spot |
| friendless solitude, | groaning and tears |
| dismal | twilight! |
| clanking | hour |
| circled | with evil |
| till his very soul | Unmoulds its essence |
| hoplessly | deformed |
| O | Nature |
| Healest thy wandering | and distempered child |
| Thy melodies | of woods, and winds, and waters. |
| no more endure to be | a jarring and dissonant thing |
| general | dance and minstrelsy |
| His angy spirit | healed and harmonised |
| joy that precedes | the calm season of rest |
| dwelling | so fair? |
| thick- | ribbed walls |
| stedfast | dejection |
| On the fetters that | link him to death |
| bone | are consumed |
| life-blood | is dried |
| blood-reeking | field |
| vault | of disease |
| A thousand sharp punctures | of cold-sweating pain |
| Poor | victim! |
| a | brother |
| Would plant thee where yet thou | might'st blossom again |
| I have a boy | of five years old |
| dearly | he loves me |
| face fair and | fresh to see |
| To think, and think, | and think again |
| Klive's | delightful shore, |
| So much happiness | to spare |
| rustic | dress |
| young lambs ran | a pretty race |
| morning sun shone | bright and warm |
| Why? | repetition throughout |
| At Klive there was no weather-cock, | And that's the reason why. |
| O dearest, | dearest boy! |
| Could I but teach the hundrethpart | Of what from thee I learn. |
| A simple | child |
| What should it | know of death? |
| rustic, | woodland air |
| was wildly | clad |
| How many | may you be |
| Seven are we | We are seven |
| Their graves | are green |
| I sit and | sing to them |
| God released her | of her pain |
| went | away |
| ground was | white with snow |
| John was forced | to go |
| O | Master |
| But they are dead; | thos two are dead! |
| A thousand | blended notes |
| sweet mood when when pleasant thoughts | Bring sad thoughts to the mind |
| Much it griev'd | my heart to think |
| What man has | made of man |
| Every flower | Enjoys the air it breathes |
| The birds around me | hopp'd and play'd |
| seem'd a | thrill of pleasure |
| Budding twigs spread out their fan, | To catch the breezy air |
| There was | pleasure there |
| Have I not reason to lament | What man has made of man? |
| First mild | day of March |
| Each minute | sweeter than before |
| Blessing | in the air |
| joy | to yield |
| My | Sister! |
| ('tis a wish | of mine) |
| Make | haste |
| Come | forth |
| Woodland | dress |
| Bring no | book |
| We'll give | to idleness |
| Our living | Calendar |
| Fom earth to man, from man to earth | -it is the hour of feeling |
| Our minds shall drink at every pore | The spirit of the season. |
| Take our temper | from to-day |
| blessed | power |
| About, | below, above. |
| How it could ever | have been young, |
| It looks so old | and grey |
| a mass | of knotted joints |
| like rock | or stone |
| Cuts like | a scythe |
| Tis three feet long, | and two feet wide |
| Fresh and | lovely sight |
| All lovely colours | All colours that were ever seen |
| vermillion dye | green, red and pearly white |
| Is like an infant's | grave in size |
| As like | as like can be |
| A woman in | a scarlet cloak |
| Oh misery! oh misery" | Oh woe is me! oh misery! |
| Frosty | air |
| whirlwind's | on the hill |
| In rain, in tempest, | and in snow |
| Oh wherefore? | wherefore? |
| A cruel, | cruel fire |
| Old Farmer Simpson | did maintain |
| Who had a | brain so wild |
| Twas mist and rain, | and storm and rain |
| With drops of poor | infants blood; |
| kill a new-born infant thus! | I do not think she could. |
| the grass shook | upon the ground |
| the thorn is bound with heavytufts of moss, | that strive to drag it to the ground |
| wild | rusty stain |
| sun has burnt her | coal-black hair |
| far from over | the mai |
| or else she | were alone |
| English | tongue |
| Sweet babe! | They day that I am mad |
| My heart | is far too glad |
| safe as in | a cradle |
| I pray thee | have no fear of me |
| I cannot work thee | any woe |
| fiendish daces | one, two, three |
| A fire | was once with my brain |
| Oh joy for me | that sight to see! |
| For he was here, | and only he |
| Suck, little babe, | oh suck again! |
| The breeze I see is in the tree; | It comes to cool my babe and me |
| do not | dread the waves |
| o'er the sea-rocks | edge we go |
| Without me my sweet | babe would die. |
| Bold | as a lion I will be; |
| I will always | be thy guide |
| merry as | the birds in spring |
| what if my poor | cheek be brown? |
| Dread not their taunts, | my little life! |
| I am thy father's | wedded wife |
| But he, poor man! | is wretched made |
| What wicked looks | are those I see? |
| Alas! alas! | that look so wild |
| If thou art mad, | my pretty lad |
| Thn I must be | for ever sad |
| To the | woods away! |
| And there, my babe; | we'll live for aye. |
Created by:
FeverForever92
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