Robert Southey Poems
|82.||To A Goose||1/3/2003|
|85.||To Mary Wollstonecraft||1/1/2004|
|86.||To My Own Minature Picture Taken At Two Years Of Age||1/1/2004|
|87.||To The Chapel Bell||1/1/2004|
|88.||To The Genius Of Africa||1/1/2004|
|89.||Wat Tyler - Act I||4/8/2010|
|90.||Wat Tyler - Act Ii||4/8/2010|
|91.||Wat Tyler - Act Iii||4/8/2010|
|93.||Written On Sunday Morning||1/1/2004|
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The Ship was still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,
The Mariners heard the ...
A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;