Nature never did betray The heart that loved her |
Neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us |
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. |
No human ear shall ever hear me speak; No human dwelling ever give me food, Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild, In search of nothing, that this earth can give, But expiation, will I wander on -- A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, Yet loathing life -- till anger is appeased In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die. |
No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees. |
No Nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebri |
Nor less I deem that there are powers/ Which of themselves our minds impress;/ That we can feed this mind of ours/ In a wise passiveness. |
Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man. |
Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams --can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man. |
Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams -can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man. |
Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, -- Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us, -- the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all! |
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. |
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells. |
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice? |
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. |