#EnglishWriters #Victorian
‘TIS of the Father Hilary. He strove, but could not pray; so… The steep—coiled stair, where his… A sad blind echo. Ever up He toiled. ’Twas a sick sway of a…
Your hands lie open in the long fr… The finger—points look through lik… Your eyes smile peace. The pastur… ‘Neath billowing skies that scatte… All round our nest, far as the eye…
The lost days of my life until to—… What were they, could I see them… Lie as they fell? Would they be e… Sown once for food but trodden int… Or golden coins squandered and sti…
Dusk—haired and gold—robed o’er th… She stoops, wherein, distilled of… Sink the black drops; while, lit w… Round her spread board the golden… Doth Helios here with Hecate comb…
THE wounded hart and the dying sw… Were side by side Where the rushes coil with the tur… The hart and the swan. AS much as in a hundred years, sh…
‘There is a budding morrow in midn… So sang our Keats, our English ni… And here, as lamps across the brid… In London’s smokeless resurrectio… Dark breaks to dawn. But o’er the…
AS he that loves oft looks on the… And guesses how it grew to womanho… And gladly would have watched the… And the mild fire of precious life… So I, long bound within the three…
What of her glass without her? Th… There where the pool is blind of t… Her dress without her? The tossed… Of cloud—rack whence the moon has… Her paths without her? Day’s appo…
LAY your head here, Mary, Lay your head here, While the blown grass, Mary, With timid voice and wary, Sings in your ear:—
Chins that might serve the new Je… Streets footsore; minute whisking… Dubbed graceful, but at whom one’s… Knowing of England; ladies, much… Bland smiling dogs with manes—a fe…
Epitaph All beauty to pourtray, Therein his duty lay, And still through toilsome strife Duty to him was life—
On this sweet bank your head thric… I lay, and spread your hair on eit… And see the newborn woodflowers ba… Look through the golden tresses he… On these debateable borders of the…
Mother, is this the darkness of th… The Shadow of Death? and is that… Infinite imminent Eternity? And does the death—pang by man’s s… In Time’s each instant cause thy…
AMBITION, Cupidité, Et délicieuse Volupté, Sont les sœurs de la Destinée Après la vingt—première année.
I never reared a young Wombat To glad me with his pin—hole eye, But when he most was sweet & fat And tail—less; he was sure to die!