#EnglishWriters
THIS mystery of golden hair, Of eyes and lips and bosom fair, Is not—if one could really see— Mere flesh and blood, like you and… This is a sphinx whose still lips…
LAURELS, bring laurels, sheaves… Till England’s boughs are bare of… Soon comes the flower more rare, m… Than any laurel this year weaves— The Aloe of the hundredth year
THE white snow falls on hill and… The snow falls white by square and… Falls on the town, a bridal veil, And on the fields a winding-sheet. A winding-sheet for last year’s fl…
In answer to those who have said t… give no personal love to their cou… ENGLAND, my country, austere in… Set in the seat of the mighty, wie… Have we but sung of your glory, fi…
PALE veil of mist bound round th… Pale fringe of rain upon the hills… Cold earth, cold sky and biting br… That mock the withered daffodils. And yet so short a while ago,
MY hollyhocks are all awake, And not a single rose is lost; My wallflowers, for dear pity’s sa… Have fought the winter’s cruel fro… Pink peony buds begin to peer,
AGE pauses on his toilsome way To let youth pluck her flowers of… Flowers are not always, but we may Cut thorns and thistles any day. Would Fate but hold her hand one…
THE waves in thunderous menace br… Upon the rocks below my tower, And none will dare the Sea-king’s… And venture shipwreck for my sake. Yet once,—my lamp a path of light
IN the coming year enfolded Bright and sad hours lie, Waiting till you reach and live th… As the year rolls by. In the happy hours and radiant
Mary of Magdala came to bed; There were no soft curtains round… She had no mother to hold of worth The little baby she brought to bir… Mary of Magdala groaned and praye…
THE poor ghost came through the w… And passed down the old dear road… Thin cowered the hedges, the tall… Like little children that shrank a… The wind was wild and the night wa…
Across the field of day In sudden blazon lay The pallid bar of gold Borne on the shield of day. Night had endured so long,
THE Sun tells to Trafalgar Squa… His old and radiant story, And touches in the young spring ai… The pepper-pots to glory. Spring’s robe down Piccadilly flo…
WE climb the hill; the mist conce… That valley where we could not sta… Surely this hill’s crest, gained,… The glory of the sunlit day. The hill is climbed. Still shadow…
WHEN all the weary flowers, Worn out with sunlit hours, Droop o’er the garden beds Their little sleepy heads, The dewy dusk on quiet wings comes…