Who is Thomas Lovell Beddoes

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Thomas Lovell Beddoes Poems

  • Song From The Waters
    Act I, scene iv, lines 259-72

    The swallow leaves her nest,
    The soul my weary breast; ...
  • From -torrismondâ? - In A Garden By Moonlight
    Veronica. COME then, a song; a winding gentle song,
    To lead me into sleep. Let it be low
    As zephyr, telling secrets to his rose,
    For I would hear the murmuring of my thoughts; ...
  • Song Of The Stygian Naiades
    Proserpine may pull her flowers,
    Wet with dew or wet with tears,
    Red with anger, pale with fears;
    Is it any fault of ours, ...
  • Let Dew The Flowers Fill
    LET dew the flowers fill;
    No need of fell despair,
    Though to the grave you bear
    One still of soul-but now too still, ...
  • Wolfram's Dirge
    IF thou wilt ease thine heart
    Of love and all its smart,
       Then sleep, dear, sleep;
    And not a sorrow ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Song 15 I Love You 13 Love 13 Soul 10 Heart 9 Sun 8 Rose 8 Light 8 Deep 7 Sleep 7


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Comments about Thomas Lovell Beddoes

  • La8pe99na2: if there were dreams to sell, what would you buy? thomas lovell beddoes the archduke leopoldo wilhelmina in his pictures gallery in brussels 1650-51 david terniers
  • Marytella2: and in some summer wilderness of flowers, as though but two hearts beat beneath the sun, consume our days of love. ~ thomas lovell beddoes the bride's tragedy act iv, scene iii (1822)
  • Melaniejaxn: tell me how many beads there are in a silver chain of evening rain, unravelled from the tumbling main, and threading the eye of a yellow star: - so many times do i love again. ~thomas lovell beddoes
  • Johnmcdonald15: "catholic emancipation"...full civil rights for catholics. (incidentally, she was an aunt of thomas lovell beddoes, famous "dark" poet, whose poems i usually posted around halloween.)
  • Ajwrightmls: 1808 dec 24: thomas beddoes died
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Alfred Lord Tennyson Poem
In Memoriam A. H. H.: 96. You Say, But With No Touch Of Sco
 by Alfred Lord Tennyson

You say, but with no touch of scorn,
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes
Are tender over drowning flies,
You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.
I know not: one indeed I knew
In many a subtle question versed,
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true:
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