#EnglishWriters
In this fair stranger’s eyes of gr… Thine eyes, my love, I see. I shudder: for the passing day Had borne me far from thee. This is the curse of life! that no…
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. What shall be said o’er Wordswort…
SAY, what blinds us, that we clai… Of possessing powers not our share… Since man woke on earth, he knows… But, before we woke on earth, we w… Long, long since, undower’d yet, o…
Go, for they call you, shepherd, f… Go, shepherd, and untie the wattle… No longer leave thy wistful flock… Nor let thy bawling fellows rack t… Nor the cropp’d herbage shoot anot…
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…
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;
In the deserted, moon-blanched str… How lonely rings the echo of my fe… Those windows, which I gaze at, f… Silent and white, unopening down, Repellent as the world,—but see,
LAUGH, 1 my Friends, and withou… Lightly quit what lightly came: Rich to-morrow as to-day Spend as madly as you may. I, with little land to stir,
What poets feel not, when they mak… A pleasure in creating, The world, in its turn, will not t… Pleasure in contemplating.
“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…
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…
God knows it, I am with you. If t… 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
“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...
Set where the upper streams of Si… Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock… And Hector was in Ilium, far belo… And fought, and saw it not—but the… It stood, and sun and moonshine ra…
The evening comes, the fields are… The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths! the ringing wai…