#EnglishWriters #Victorian
HE turned his face apart, and gav… And a strange whimper—such a pitif… As haunts the heart for days. “Ye… Unto a pass so low that it seems h… And, when we see a brave and stron…
THOU fill’st from the winged cha… Thy lamp, O Memory, fire—winged t…
How sweet a solace is the bridal—b… Dawn as prepared, evening as hallo…
ON a fair Sabbath day, when His… It is pleasant to feast with my L… His stewards stand robed at the fo… Of the soul—filling, life—giving b… All the guests here had burthens;…
Of her two fights with the Beryl—… Lost the first, but the second won… “MARY mine that art Mary’s Rose Come in to me from the garden—clos… The sun sinks fast with the rising…
AS when the last of the paid joys… Has come and gone; and with a sing… At length, and with one laugh of s… The wearied man a minute rests abo… The wearied woman, no more urged t…
“WHY wilt thou cast the roses fro… Nay, be thou all a rose,—wreath, l… Nay, not this house,—that banquet—… See how they kiss and enter; come… This delicate day of love we two w…
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,…
“Why did you melt your waxen man Sister Helen? To—day is the third since you bega… “The time was long, yet the time r… Little brother.”
“Thou Ghost,” I said, “and is thy… Yesterday’s son, with such an abje… And can To—morrow be more pale th… While yet I spoke, the silence an… Henceforth our issue is all grieve…
THAT voice I hear,—how heard I… Although my home is this, seems fr… There… still it trails along and m… Like the slow death of sound withi… Or like the humming whine in some…
Love, should I fear death most fo… Yet if you die, can I not follow… Forcing the straits of change? Al… Shall wrest a bond from night’s in… Ere yet my hazardous soul put fort…
WHAT of the end, Pandora? Was i… The deed that set these fiery pini… Ah! wherefore did the Olympian co… In its own likeness make thee half… Was it that Juno’s brow might sta…
Great Michelangelo, with age grow… And uttermost labours, having once… All grievous memories on his long… This worst regret to one true hear… That when, with sorrowing love and…
Oh! May sits crowned with hawthor… And is Love’s month, they say; And Love’s the fruit that is ripe… By ladies’ eyes in May.