#ScottishWriters
Sleepless himself to give to other… He giveth His beloved sleep. I HEARD the sounding of the mid… The others one by one had left the… In calm assurance that the graciou…
Who has a thing to bring For a gift to our lord the king, Our king all kings above? A young girl brought him love; And he dowered her with shame,
Per me si va nella citta dolente. —Dante Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti mot… D’ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa, Girando senza posa,
What precious thing are you making… In all these silken lines? And where and to whom will it go a… Such subtle knots and twines! I am tying up all my love in this,
IN the early morning-shine Of a certain day divine, I beheld a Maiden stand With a pitcher in her hand; Whence she poured into a cup
As we rush, as we rush in the Tra… The trees and the houses go wheeli… But the starry heavens above the p… Come flying on our track. All the beautiful stars of the sky…
FROM out the house I crept, The house which long had caged my… The mighty City in vast silence s… Dreaming away its tumult, toil, an… But sleep and sleep’s rich dreams…
Arcane danze D’immortal piede I ruinosi gioghi Scossero e l’ardue selve (oggi rom… Nido de’ venti). LEOPARDI Through the country to the town
O antique fables! beautiful and br… And joyous with the joyous youth o… O antique fables! for a little lig… Of that which shineth in you everm… To cleanse the dimness from our we…
THROUGH foulest fogs of my own… Through midnight glooms of all the… Through sulphurous cannon-clouds t… Above the steam of blood in anger… Through all the sombre earth-oppre…
He cried out through the night: “Where is the light? Shall nevermore Open Heaven’s door? Oh, I am left
His eyes found nothing beautiful a… Nor wealth nor honour, glory nor d… Which he could grasp and keep with… Flowers bloomed for maidens, sword… The world’s big children had their…
THE CHURCH stands there beyond… How yearningly I gaze upon its sp… Lifted mysterious through the twil… Dissolving in the sunset’s golden… Or dim as slender incense morn by…
WHEN one is forty years and seve… Is seven and forty sad years old, He looks not onward for his Heave… The future is too blank and cold, Its pale flowers smell of graveyar…
(AN VERY IDLE IDYLL B… This is the Heath of Hampstead, This is the Dome of Saint Paul’s… Beneath, on the serried house-tops… A chequered luster falls: