|
Safe where I cannot die yet
Scarlet coats, and crash o' the band
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd
Seamen three! What men be ye?
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
See, I have climbed the mountain side
See how the flowers, as at parade
See the Chariot at hand here of Love
See where she sits upon the grassie greene
See with what simplicity
See yon blithe child that dances in our sight!
Sense with keenest edge unused
Set in this stormy Northern sea
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel
Shall I, wasting in despair
She beat the happy pavement
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
She fell away in her first ages spring
She stood breast-high amid the corn
She walks—the lady of my delight
She walks in beauty, like the night
She was a phantom of delight
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
Should you ask me
Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night
Since there 's no help, come let us kiss and part
Sing his praises that doth keep
Sing lullaby, as women do
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha
Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell
Sleep, little eyes
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went
So shuts the marigold her leaves
So, we'll go no more a-roving
Soft is the collied night, and cool
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king
Stand close around, ye Stygian set
Stay, O sweet, and do not rise!
Steer, hither steer your winged pines
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd to wear
Still to be neat, still to be drest
Strange fits of passion have I known
Strew on her roses, roses
Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare
Sunset and evening star
Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright!
Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness
Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train
Sweet western wind, whose luck it is
Sweetest Saviour, if my soul
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave
|
