Anna Laetitia Barbauld

(20 June 1743 – 9 March 1825 / Leicestershire, England)

Anna Laetitia Barbauld Poems

1. A School Eclogue 9/6/2010
2. A Summer Evening's Meditation 9/6/2010
3. A Thought On Death 9/6/2010
4. An Address To The Deity 9/6/2010
5. An Autumnal Thought 9/6/2010
6. An Inventory Of The Furniture In Dr. Priestley's Study 9/6/2010
7. Autumn 9/6/2010
8. Awake My Soul! 9/6/2010
9. Beauty Of Insects 9/6/2010
10. Behold 9/6/2010
11. Characters 9/6/2010
12. Come, Said Jesus 9/6/2010
13. Corsica 9/6/2010
14. Dejection 9/6/2010
15. Delia, An Elegy 9/6/2010
16. Dirge 9/6/2010
17. Eighteen Hundred And Eleven 9/6/2010
18. Enigma 9/6/2010
19. Epistle To Dr. Enfield 9/6/2010
20. Epistle To William Wilberforce, Esq. 9/6/2010
21. Epitaph On The Same 9/6/2010
22. Epithalamium 9/6/2010
23. Eternity 9/6/2010
24. For Easter Sunday 9/6/2010
25. Fragment 9/6/2010
26. How Blest The Righteous When He Dies! 9/6/2010
27. Hymn To Content 9/6/2010
28. Hymn: Ye Are The Salt Of The Earth 9/6/2010
29. In The Manner Of Spenser 9/6/2010
30. Inscription For An Ice-House 9/6/2010
31. Jehovah Reigns 9/6/2010
32. Joy To The Followers Of The Lord 9/6/2010
33. Life! I Know Not What Thou Art 9/6/2010
34. Lines 9/6/2010
35. Logogriph 9/6/2010
36. Octogenery Reflections 9/6/2010
37. Ode To Remorse 9/6/2010
38. Ode To Spring 9/6/2010
39. On A Lady's Writing 9/6/2010
40. On A Portrait 9/6/2010

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Best Poem of Anna Laetitia Barbauld

The Caterpillar

No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now;
Depart in peace, thy little life is safe,
For I have scanned thy form with curious eye,
Noted the silver line that streaks thy back,
The azure and the orange that divide
Thy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer,
My garment has enfolded, and my arm
Felt the light pressure of thy hairy feet;
Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip,
Precipitous descent! with stretched out neck,
Bending thy head in airy vacancy,
This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemed
To ask protection; now, I cannot kill thee.
Yet...

Read the full of The Caterpillar

A Thought On Death

When life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the fancy greet,
And Youth prepares his joys to meet,-
Alas! how hard it is to die!
When just is seized some valued prize,
And duties press, and tender ties
Forbid the soul from earth to rise,-
How awful then it is to die!
When, one by one, those ties are torn,

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