#EnglishWriters
Come not before me now, O visiona… Me tempest-tost, and borne along l… Troublous and dark and stormy thou… Not here and now may we commingle… Lest the loud anguish of the water…
Let us go hence: the night is now… The day is overworn, the birds all… And we have reaped the crops the g… Despair and death; deep darkness o… Broods like an owl; we cannot unde…
They are not long, the weeping and… Love and desire and hate: I think they have no portion in us… We pass the gate. They are not long, the days of win…
(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…
See how the trees and the osiers l… Are green bedecked and the woods a… The meadows have donned their cape… The air is soft with the sweet Ma… And the birds make melody:
Love’s aftermath! I think the tim… That we must gather in, alone, apa… The saddest crop of all the crops… Love’s aftermath. Ah, sweet,—sweet yesterday, the te…
When this, our rose, is faded, And these, our days, are done, In lands profoundly shaded From tempest and from sun: Ah, once more come together,
By the sad waters of separation Where we have wandered by divers w… I have but the shadow and imitatio… Of the old memorial days. In music I have no consolation,
Tears fall within mine heart, As rain upon the town: Whence does this languor start, Possessing all mine heart? O sweet fall of the rain
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…
WITH HIS SONGS AND HE… Violets and leaves of vine, Into a frail, fair wreath We gather and entwine: A wreath for Love to wear,
What land of Silence, Where pale stars shine On apple-blossom And dew-drenched vine, Is yours and mine?
Because I am idolotrous and have… With grievous supplication and con… The admirable image that my love h… Out of her swan’s neck and her dar… The jealous gods who brook no wors…
‘A little, _passionately, not at a… She casts the snowy petals on the… And what care we how many petals f… Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to… It is but playing, and she will no…
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,