#EnglishWriters #Victorian
O lovely hand, that thy sweet self… In that thy pure and proper elemen… Whence erst the Lady of Love’s hi… Was born, and endless fires sprang… Even as her Loves to her their of…
A REMOTE sky, prolonged to the… One rock—point standing buffeted a… Vexed at its base with a foul beas… Hell—birth of geomaunt and teraphi… A knight, and a winged creature be…
CON manto d’oro, collana, ed anel… Le piace aver con quelli Non altro che una rosa ai suoi cap… WITH golden mantle, rings, and n… It likes her best to wear
Bless love and hope. Full many a… Whirled past us, eddying to its ch… And clasped together where the blo… We long have knelt and wept full m… Yet lo! one hour at last, the Spr…
UPON the landscape of his coming… A youth high—gifted gazed, and fou… The heights of work, the floods of… What friendships, what desires, wh… All things to come. The fanned sp…
DUSK—HAIRED and gold—robed o’… She stoops, wherein, distilled of… Sink the black drops; while, lit w… Round her spread board the golden… Doth Helios here with Hecaté comb…
YESTERDAY was St. Valentine. Thought you at all, dear dove divi… Upon the beard in sorry trim And rueful countenance of him, That Orson who’s your Valentine?
REND, rend thine hair, Cassandra… Yea, rend thy garments, wring thin… From Troy still towered to the un… See, all but she that bore thee mo… He most whom that fair woman arms,…
She fell asleep on Christmas Eve: At length the long—ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh’d The pain nought else might yet rel… Our mother, who had lean’d all day
Lady, I thank thee for thy loveli… Because my lady is more lovely sti… Glorying I gaze, and yield with g… To thee thy tribute; by whose swee… Of delicate life Love labours to…
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…
WOULD God your health were as t… Should be, were this not England,… Abroad, to give the gracious sunsh… And laugh beneath the budding hawt… But here the hedgerows pine from g…
In our Museum galleries To—day I lingered o’er the prize Dead Greece vouchsafes to living… Her Art for ever in fresh wise From hour to hour rejoicing me.
In whomsoe’er, since Poesy began, A Poet most of all men we may sca… Burns of all poets is the most a…
THERE’S a female bard, grim as… Who daily grows shakier and shakie…