Lyrical Ballads Word Scramble
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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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