Charlotte Smith

(4 May 1749 – 28 October 1806 / London)

Charlotte Smith Poems

1. A Descriptive Ode 4/15/2010
2. A Walk In The Shrubbery 4/15/2010
3. Apostrophe 4/15/2010
4. April 4/15/2010
5. Beachy Head 4/15/2010
6. Elegy 4/15/2010
7. Evening 4/15/2010
8. Flora 4/15/2010
9. Fragment 4/15/2010
10. Hope 4/15/2010
11. Huge Vapours Brood Above The Clifted Shore 1/3/2003
12. Inscription 4/15/2010
13. Love And Folly 4/15/2010
14. Occasional Address 4/15/2010
15. Ode To Death 4/15/2010
16. Ode To Despair 4/15/2010
17. Ode To The Poppy 4/15/2010
18. On The Aphorism 4/15/2010
19. Saint Monica 4/15/2010
20. Song I 4/15/2010
21. Song Ii 4/15/2010
22. Song Iii 4/15/2010
23. Sonnet I 1/1/2004
24. Sonnet Ii 4/15/2010
25. Sonnet Iii: To A Nightingale 1/3/2003
26. Sonnet Iv. To The Moon 4/15/2010
27. Sonnet Ix. 4/15/2010
28. Sonnet L. 4/15/2010
29. Sonnet Li. 4/15/2010
30. Sonnet Lii. 4/15/2010
31. Sonnet Liii. 4/15/2010
32. Sonnet Liv. 4/15/2010
33. Sonnet Lix. 4/15/2010
34. Sonnet Lv. 4/15/2010
35. Sonnet Lvi. 4/15/2010
36. Sonnet Lvii. To Dependence 4/15/2010
37. Sonnet Lviii. The Glow-Worm 4/15/2010
38. Sonnet Lx. To An Amiable Girl 4/15/2010
39. Sonnet Lxi 4/15/2010
40. Sonnet Lxii 4/15/2010
Best Poem of Charlotte Smith

Sonnet Lxvi: The Night-Flood Rakes

The night-flood rakes upon the stony shore;
Along the rugged cliffs and chalky caves
Mourns the hoarse Ocean, seeming to deplore
All that are buried in his restless waves—
Mined by corrosive tides, the hollow rock
Falls prone, and rushing from its turfy height,
Shakes the broad beach with long-resounding shock,
Loud thundering on the ear of sullen Night;
Above the desolate and stormy deep,
Gleams the wan Moon, by floating mist opprest;
Yet here while youth, and health, and labour sleep,
Alone I wander—Calm untroubled rest,
"Nature's soft nurse," deserts the...

Read the full of Sonnet Lxvi: The Night-Flood Rakes

A Descriptive Ode

Supposed to have been written under the Ruins of
Rufus's Castle, among the remains of the ancient
Church on the Isle of Portland.
CHAOTIC pile of barren stone,
That Nature's hurrying hand has thrown,
Half finish'd, from the troubled waves;
On whose rude brow the rifted tower
Has frown'd, through many a stormy hour,
On this drear site of tempest-beaten graves.

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