#EnglishWriters
Chillanwallah, Chillanwallah! Where our brothers fought and bled… O thy name is natural music And a dirge above the dead! Though we have not been defeated,
We saw the swallows gathering in t… And in the osier-isle we heard the… We had not to look back on summer… Or forward to a summer of bright d… But in the largeness of the evenin…
They say, that Pity in Love’s ser… A porter at the rosy temple’s gate… I missed him going: but it is my f… To come upon him now beside his we… Whereby I know that I Love’s tem…
Leave the uproar: at a leap Thou shalt strike a woodland path, Enter silence, not of sleep, Under shadows, not of wrath; Breath which is the spirit’s bath
Two wedded lovers watched the risi… That with her strange mysterious b… Over misty hills and waters flowin… Crowned the long twilight loveline… And thus in me, and thus in me, th…
Sleek as a lizard at round of a st… The look of her heart slipped out… Sweet on her lord her soft eyes sh… As innocents clear of a shade of s… He laid a finger under her chin,
Where faces are hueless, where eye… Where passion is silent and hearts… Where thought hath no theme, and w… In patience and peace thou art gon… Gone where no warning can wake the…
Earth loves her young: a preferenc… She prompts them to her fruits and… Their beauty with her choicest int… And makes her revel of their merry… As in our East much were it in ou…
[Iliad, B. XIV. V. 394] Not the sea-wave so bellows abroad… Whipped from the sea’s deeps up by… Nay, nor is ever the roar of the f… Down along mountain-glades, when i…
In Progress you have little faith… Men will maintain dear interests,… By force, and gentle women choose… Most amorously from the gilded fig… The human heart Bellona’s mad hal…
Pitch here the tent, while the old… By the old hedge—side we’ll halt a… It’s nigh my last above the daisie… My next leaf’ll be man’s blank pag… Yes, my old girl! and it’s no use…
Who call her Mother and who calls… Look on her grave and see not Dea…
His Lady queen of woods to meet, He wanders day and night: The leaves have whisperings discre… The mossy ways invite. Across a lustrous ring of space,
To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both… Who straightway sound the call to… And that black spot in each embatt… Spring of the blood-stream, later… Now is it red artillery and white…
Close Echo hears the woodman’s ax… To double on it, as in glee, With clap of hands, and little lac… Of meaning in her repartee. For all shall fall,