#EnglishWriters #Victorian
18th November 1852 “VICTORY!” So once more the cry must be. Duteous mourning we fulfil In God’s name; but by God’s will,
Think thou and act; to—morrow thou… Outstretch’d in the sun’s warmth u… Thou say’st: “Man’s measur’d path… Up all his years, steeply, with st… Man clomb until he touch’d the tru…
Love hath a chamber all of imagery… And there is one dim nook, A little storied web wherein my he… From leaf to leaf is read as in a… One part in the middle of the web…
Watch thou and fear; to—morrow tho… Or art thou sure thou shalt have t… Is not the day which God’s word p… To come man knows not when? In yo… Now while we speak, the sun speeds…
Not I myself know all my love for… How should I reach so far, who ca… To—morrow’s dower by gage of yeste… Shall birth and death, and all dar… As doors and windows bared to some…
Each hour until we meet is as a bi… That wings from far his gradual wa… The rustling covert of my soul,—hi… Still loudlier trilled through lea… But at the hour of meeting, a clea…
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…
Thin are the night-skirts left beh… By daybreak hours that onward cree… And thin, alas! the shred of sleep That wavers with the spirit’s wind… But in half-dreams that shift and…
THE thoughts in me are very calm… That think upon your love: yet by… You shall not greatly marvel that… Or nightfall—yet scarce nightfall—… Leaves me thus sad. Now if you as…
Some prisoned moon in steep cloud—… Throned queen and thralled; some d… Blazed with momentous memorable fi… Who hath not yearned and fed his h… Who, sleepless, hath not anguished…
This is her picture as she was: It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone. I gaze until she seems to stir,—
Not in thy body is thy life at all… But in this lady’s lips and hands… Through these she yields thee life… What else were sorrow’s servant an… Look on thyself without her, and r…
Young Love lies sleeping In May—time of the year, Among the lilies, Lapped in the tender light: White lambs come grazing,
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…
DID she in summer write it, or in… Or with this wail of autumn at her… Or in some winter left among old y… Scratched it through tettered cark… That round her heart the frost was…