#EnglishWriters
What is Love? Is it a folly, Is it mirth, or melancholy? Joys above, Are there many, or not any?
(For Arthur Symons) I was not sorrowful, I could not… And all my memories were put to sl… I watched the river grow more whit… All day till evening I watched it…
Strange grows the river on the sun… The river comforts me, grown spect… Long was the day; at last the cons… _Sufficient for the day are the da… Labour and longing and despair the…
A while we wandered (thus it is I… Through a long, sandy track of No… Where only poppies grew among the… The which we, plucking, cast with… And ever sadlier, into the sad str…
There comes an end to summer, To spring showers and hoar rime; His mumming to each mummer Has somewhere end in time, And since life ends and laughter,
Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly, Where never coos the turtle-dove, A world forgotten of the sun:
If we must part, Then let it be like this. Not heart on heart, Nor with the useless anguish of a… But touch mine hand and say:
This libation, Cupid, take, With the lilies at thy feet; Cherish Pierrot for their sake Send him visions strange and sweet… While he slumbers at thy feet.
Ah, Manon, say, why is it we Are one and all so fain of thee? Thy rich red beauty debonnaire In very truth is not more fair, Than the shy grace and purity
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwi… There fell thy shadow, Cynara! th… Upon my soul between the kisses an… And I was desolate and sick of an… Yea, I was desolate and bowed my…
(1887-1895) Through the green boughs I hardly… They twined so close: the sun was… And now the sullen trees in sombre… Stand bare beneath the sinister, s…
In your mother’s apple-orchard, Just a year ago, last spring: Do you remember, Yvonne! The dear trees lavishing Rain of their starry blossoms
Here, where the breath of the scen… sun-stained air, On a steep hill-side, on a grassy… and heard Only the faint breeze pass in a wh…
Dew on her robe and on her tangled… Twin dewdrops for her eyes; behold… With dainty step brushing the youn… The while she trills some high, fa… Full of all feathered sweetness: s…
Why is there in the least touch of… More grace than other women’s lips… If love is but a slave in fleshly… Of flesh to flesh, wherever love m… Why choose vain grief and heavy-he…