#EnglishWriters
I must not say that thou wert true… Yet let me say that thou wert fair… And they that lovely face who view… They will not ask if truth be ther… Truth—what is truth? Two bleeding…
That son of Italy who tried to bl… Ere Dante came, the trump of sacr… In his light youth amid a festal t… Sate with his bride to see a publi… Fair was the bride, and on her fro…
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Gree… Long since, saw Byron’s struggle… But one such death remain’d to com… The last poetic voice is dumb— We stand to-day by Wordsworth’s t…
We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be. I bade it keep the world away, And grow a home for only thee; Nor fear’d but thy love likewise g…
Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow… Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Crouch’d on the pavement close by… A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and to… A babe was in her arms, and at her… A girl; their clothes were rags, t… Some labouring men, whose work lay…
“Yourselves and your fellows ye know not; and me, The mateless, the one, will ye know? Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast, My longing, my s...
Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too! Her mirth the world required;
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffu… With rain, where thick the crocus… Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent… The bridge is cross’d, and slow we…
“O monstrous, dead, unprofitable w… That thou canst hear, and hearing,… A voice oracular hath peal’d to-da… To-day a hero’s banner is unfurl’d… Hast thou no lip for welcome?”—So…
“Miserere, Domine! The words are utter’d, and they flee. Deep is their penitential moan, Mighty their pathos, but ’tis gone. They have declared the spirit’s sore Sore load, and words ca...
GOD knows it, I am with you. If… Those virtues, priz’d and practis’… But priz’d, but lov’d, but eminent… Man’s fundamental life: if to desp… The barren optimistic sophistries
In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen’d by deep boughs on either… And at its end, to stay the eye, Those black-crown’d, red-boled pin… Birds here make song, each bird ha…
If, in the silent mind of One all… At first imagin’d lay The sacred world; and by processio… From those still deeps, in form an… Seasons alternating, and night and…
Weary of myself, and sick of askin… What I am, and what I ought to be… At this vessel’s prow I stand, wh… Forwards, forwards, o’er the starl… And a look of passionate desire