Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Сэмюэл Тэйлор Кольридж)

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. Lines
2. On a Connubial Rupture in High Life
3. On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country
4. To an Infant
5. The Suicide's Argument

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