Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton

(22 March 1808 – 15 June 1877 / London)

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton Poems

1. A Destiny 4/15/2010
2. A Voice From The Factories 4/15/2010
3. An Emblem Of Life 4/15/2010
4. As When From Dreams Awaking 4/15/2010
5. Babel 4/15/2010
6. Dedication 4/15/2010
7. Description Of A Lost Friend 4/15/2010
8. Dreams 4/15/2010
9. Edward 4/15/2010
10. Escape From The Snares Of Love 4/15/2010
11. First Love 4/15/2010
12. I Cannot Love Thee! 4/15/2010
13. I Do Not Love Thee 1/4/2003
14. I Was Not False To Thee 4/15/2010
15. Ifs 4/15/2010
16. Love Not 1/1/2004
17. Mary 4/15/2010
18. May-Day, 1837 4/15/2010
19. My Childhood's Home 4/15/2010
20. My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut! 4/15/2010
21. My Native Land! 4/15/2010
22. Old Friends 4/15/2010
23. On Seeing Anthony, The Eldest Child Of Lord And Lady Ashley 4/15/2010
24. On The Purple And White Carnation 4/15/2010
25. Picture Of Twilight 4/15/2010
26. Recollections 4/15/2010
27. Recollections Of A Faded Beauty 4/15/2010
28. Sonnet I 4/15/2010
29. Sonnet Ii 4/15/2010
30. Sonnet Iii 4/15/2010
31. Sonnet Iv 4/15/2010
32. Sonnet Ix 4/15/2010
33. Sonnet V 4/15/2010
34. Sonnet Vi 4/15/2010
35. Sonnet Vii 4/15/2010
36. Sonnet Viii 4/15/2010
37. Sonnet X 4/15/2010
38. Sonnet Xi 4/15/2010
39. Sonnet Xii 4/15/2010
40. Sonnet Xiii 4/15/2010
Best Poem of Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton

My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!

MY heart is like a withered nut,
Rattling within its hollow shell;
You cannot ope my breast, and put
Any thing fresh with it to dwell.
The hopes and dreams that filled it when
Life's spring of glory met my view,
Are gone! and ne'er with joy or pain
That shrunken heart shall swell anew.

My heart is like a withered nut;
Once it was soft to every touch,
But now 'tis stern and closely shut;--
I would not have to plead with such.
Each light-toned voice once cleared my brow,
Each gentle breeze once shook the tree
Where hung the sun-lit ...

Read the full of My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!

Dedication

ONCE more, my harp! once more, although I thought
Never to wake thy silent strings again,
A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought,
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain,
Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough,
Into the poet's Heaven, and leaves dull grief below!

And unto Thee--the beautiful and pure--
Whose lot is cast amid that busy world

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