#English #Victorians #Women #XIXCentury
I would not if I could undo my pa… Tho’ for its sake my future is a b… My past, for which I have myself… For all its faults and follies fir… I would not cast anew the lot once…
To think that this meaningless thi… Scentless, colourless, this! Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close?
Rosy maiden Winifred, With a milkpail on her head, Tripping through the corn, While the dew lies on the wheat In the sunny morn.
BRIDE O love, love, hold me fast, He draws me away from thee; I cannot stem the blast, Nor the cold strong sea:
The peach tree on the southern wal… Has basked so long beneath the sun… Her score of peaches great and sma… Bloom rosy, every one. A peach for brothers, one for each…
I will accept thy will to do and b… Thy hatred and intolerance of sin, Thy will at least to love, that bu… And thirsteth after Me: So will I render fruitful, blessi…
“Sweet, thou art pale.” “More pale to see, Christ hung upon the cruel tree And bore His Father’s wrath for m… “Sweet, thou art sad.”
Young Love lies sleeping In May—time of the year, Among the lilies, Lapped in the tender light: White lambs come grazing,
The rose with such a bonny blush, What has the rose to blush about? If it’s the sun that makes her flu… What’s in the sun to flush about?
‘Oh, where are you going with your… On the west wind blowing along thi… 'The downhill path is easy, come w… We shall escape the uphill by neve… So they two went together in glowi…
The earth was green, the sky was b… I saw and heard one sunny morn, A skylark hang between the two, A singing speck above the corn; A stage below, in gay accord,
Golden—winged, silver—winged, Winged with flashing flame, Such a flight of birds I saw, Birds without a name: Singing songs in their own tongue
She gave up beauty in her tender y… Gave all her hope and joy and plea… She covered up her eyes lest they… On vanity, and chose the bitter tr… Harsh towards herself, towards oth…
This Advent moon shines cold and… These Advent nights are long; Our lamps have burned year after y… And still their flame is strong. ‘Watchman, what of the night?’ we…
A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily.