Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

To the Muse

Tho’ no bold flights to thee belong;
And tho’ thy lays with conscious fear,
Shrink from Judgement’s eye severe,
Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song!
For, lovely Muse! thy sweet employ
Exalts my soul, refines my breast,
Gives each pure pleasure keener zest,
And softens sorrow into pensive Joy.
From thee I learn’d the wish to bless,
From thee to commune with my heart;
From thee, dear Muse! the gayer part,
To laugh with pity at the crowds that press
Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun,
Whose hues gay-varying wanton in the sun.

1. Home-Sick. Written In Germany
2. Duty Surviving Self-Love, the Only Sure Friend of Declining Life
3. To the Autumnal Moon
4. To a Lady, Offended by a Sportive Observation That Women Have No Souls
5. What Is an Epigram?

Print

3920 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version