#EnglishWriters
Believe me, this was true last nig… Tho’ it is false to-day. —A.M.F. Robinson. A fair dream to my chamber flew: Such a crowd of folk that stirred,
O is it Love or is it Fame, This thing for which I sigh? Or has it then no earthly name For men to call it by? I know not what can ease my pains,
(After Heine.) The sad rain falls from Heaven, A sad bird pipes and sings ; I am sitting here at my window And watching the spires of “King’…
To E.M.S. Here, where your garden fenced abo… Here, where the unmoved summer air… With mixed delight of lavender and… Dreaming I linger in the noontide…
Put the sweet thoughts from out… The dreams from out thy breast; No joy for thee—but thou shalt fin… Thy rest All day I could not work for woe,
(From Lenau.) So late, and yet a nightingale? Long since have dropp’d the blosso… The summer fields are ripening, And yet a sound of spring?
She, who so long has lain Stone-stiff with folded wings, Within my heart again The brown bird wakes and sings. Brown nightingale, whose strain
I knew not if to laugh or weep; They sat and talked of you— “'Twas here he sat; ’twas this he… ’Twas that he used to do. ”Here is the book wherein he read,
Back to the mystic shore beyond th… The mystic craft has sped, and lef… Ah, nevermore may she behold his f… Nor touch his hand, nor hear his v… With hidden front she crouches; al…
The east wind blows in the street… The sky is blue, yet the town look… ’Tis the wind of ice, the wind of… Of cold despair and of hot desire, Which chills the flesh to aches an…
On Bellosguardo, when the year wa… We wandered, seeking for the daffo… And dark anemone, whose purples fi… The peasant’s plot, between the co… Over the grey, low wall the olive…
What ails my senses thus to cheat? What is it ails the place, That all the people in the street Should wear one woman’s face? The London trees are dusty-brown
Green is the plane-tree in the squ… The other trees are brown; They droop and pine for country ai… The plane-tree loves the town. Here from my garret-pane, I mark
After a Richter Concert. In the long, sad time, when the sk… And the keen blast blew through th… When delight had fled from the nig… My chill heart whispered, ‘ June…
"Am Kreuzweg wird begraben Wer selber brachte sich um." When first the world grew dark to… I call’d on God, yet came not he. Whereon, as wearier wax’d my lot,