Charles Lamb

(10 February 1775 – 27 December 1834 / London)

Charles Lamb Poems

81. The Orange 4/10/2010
82. Parental Recollections 4/10/2010
83. The Ride 4/10/2010
84. The Fairy 4/10/2010
85. The Reproof 4/10/2010
86. The Reaper's Child 4/10/2010
87. Suffer Little Children, And Forbid Them Not, To Come Unto Me 4/10/2010
88. The First Tooth 4/10/2010
89. On The Sight Of Swans In Kensington Gardens 1/1/2004
90. David In The Cave Of Adullam 4/10/2010
91. The Dessert 4/10/2010
92. The Beggar-Man 4/10/2010
93. Living Without God In The World 4/10/2010
94. Envy 4/10/2010
95. Sonnet Viii 4/10/2010
96. Discontent And Quarrelling 4/10/2010
97. The Journey From School And To School 4/10/2010
98. Conquest Of Prejudice 4/10/2010
99. Epigram 4/10/2010
100. David 4/10/2010
101. A Parody 4/10/2010
102. Eyes 4/10/2010
103. Beauty's Song 4/10/2010
104. Lines 4/10/2010
105. Clock Striking 4/10/2010
106. Hester 1/4/2003
107. A Dramatic Fragment 4/10/2010
108. The Spartan Boy 4/10/2010
109. A Ballad 4/10/2010
110. As When A Child... 4/10/2010
111. Choosing A Profession 4/10/2010
112. Cleanliness 4/10/2010
113. Charity 4/10/2010
114. The Boy And The Snake 4/10/2010
115. A Farewell To Tobacco 4/10/2010
116. Crumbs To The Birds 4/10/2010
117. Choosing A Name 4/10/2010
118. A Timid Grace Sits Trembling In Her Eye 1/1/2004
119. On An Infant Dying As Soon As Born 1/4/2003
120. Breakfast 4/10/2010

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Best Poem of Charles Lamb

Blindness

In a stage-coach, where late I chanced to be,
A little quiet girl my notice caught;
I saw she looked at nothing by the way,
Her mind seemed busy on some childish thought.


I with an old man's courtesy addressed
The child, and called her pretty dark-eyed maid,
And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see
The wide extended prospect. 'Sir,' she said,


'I cannot see the prospect, I am blind.'
Never did tongue of child utter a sound
So mournful, as her words fell on my ear.
Her mother then related how she found


Her child was sightless. On a ...

Read the full of Blindness

A Dramatic Fragment

'Fie upon't!
All men are false, I think. The date of love
Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale,
O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale
Of Hero and Leander.'


-John Woodvil

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