#EnglishWriters
‘Bibber besotted, with scowl of a… Never to join to thy warriors arme… Never for ambush forth with the pr… Dared thy soul, for to thee that t… Sooth, more easy it seems, down th…
Blue July, bright July, Month of storms and gorgeous blue; Violet lightnings o’er thy sky, Heavy falls of drenching dew; Summer crown! o’er glen and glade
Hawk or shrike has done this deed Of downy feathers: rueful sight! Sweet sentimentalist, invite Your bosom’s Power to intercede. So hard it seems that one must ble…
Prince of Bards was old Aneurin; He the grand Gododin sang; All his numbers threw such fire in… Struck his harp so wild a twang; - Still the wakeful Briton borrows
How sweet on sunny afternoons, For those who journey light and we… To loiter up a hilly rise Which hides the prospect far beyon… And fancy all the landscape lying
There were three maidens met on th… The sun was down, the night was la… And two sang loud with the birds o… O the nightingale is merry with it… Said they to the youngest, Why wa…
Day of the cloud in fleets! O day Of wedded white and blue, that sai… Immingled, with a footing ray In shadow—sandals down our vale!— And swift to ravish golden meads,
’Tis true the wisdom that my mind… Through contemplation from a heart… By many tempests may be stained an… The summer flies it mightily attra… Yet they seem choicer than your so…
Take thy lute and sing By the ruined castle walls, Where the torrent-foam falls, And long weeds wave: Take thy lute and sing,
(The Death Of Robert Browning) Now dumb is he who waked the world… And voiceless hangs the world besi… Our words are sobs, our cry of pra… We are the smitten mortal, we the…
Picture some Isle smiling green '… Full of old woods, leafy wisdoms,… Passions and pageants; sweet love… Life in all shapes, aims, and fate… human heart.
Unhappy poets of a sunken prime! You to reviewers are as ball to ba… They shadow you with Homer, knock… With Shakespeare: bludgeons brain… On you the excommunicates of Rhym…
When I would image her features, Comes up a shrouded head: I touch the outlines, shrinking; She seems of the wandering dead. But when love asks for nothing,
At the coming up of Phoebus the a… Double-visaged stand the mountains… And with shadows dappled men sing… For they shudder chill, the earth-… black;
At last we parley: we so strangely… In such a close communion! It bef… About the sounding of the Matin—b… And lo! her place was vacant, and… Of loneliness was round me. Then…