#EnglishWriters
The spirit of Romance dies not to… Who hold a kindred spirit in their… Even as the odorous life within th… Lives in the scattered leaflets an… Mysterious adoration, so there glo…
With love exceeding a simple love… That glide in grasses and rubble o… Or change their perch on a beat of… From branch to branch, only restfu… Or, bristled, curl at a touch thei…
Full faith I have she holds that… To beauty, Common Sense. To see… With her fair visage an inverted s… Bloom-covered, while the underlids… Would almost wreck the faith; but…
I think she sleeps: it must be sle… Hangs that abandoned arm toward th… The face turned with it. Now make… Sleep on: it is your husband, not… The Poet’s black stage-lion of wr…
Love ere he bleeds, an eagle in hi… Has earth beneath his wings: from… He views the rosy dawn. In vain t… The fatal web below while far he f… But when the arrow strikes him, th…
When buds of palm do burst and spr… Their downy feathers in the lane, And orchard blossoms, white and re… Breathe Spring delight for Autumn… And the skylark shakes his wings i…
Follow me, follow me, Over brake and under tree, Thro’ the bosky tanglery, Brushwood and bramble! Follow me, follow me,
We three are on the cedar-shadowed… My friend being third. He who at… Is in the weak rib by a fatal shaf… Struck through, and tells his pass… And radiant culmination, glorious…
The clouds are withdrawn And their thin-rippled mist, That stream’d o’er the lawn To the drowsy-eyed west. Cold and grey
When the Head of Bran Was firm on British shoulders, God made a man! Cried all beholders. Steel could not resist
(ADDRESSED TO CERTAI… The wind is East, the wind is Wes… Blows in and out of haven; The wind that blows is the wind th… And croak, my jolly raven!
The day that is the night of days, With cannon-fire for sun ablaze We spy from any billow’s lift; And England still this tidal drif… Would she to sainted forethought v…
What soul would bargain for a cure… Contempt the nobler agony to kill? Rather let me bear on the bitter i… And strike this rusty bosom with n… It seems there is another veering…
Under boughs of breathing May, In the mild spring-time I lay, Lonely, for I had no love; And the sweet birds all sang for p… Cuckoo, lark, and dove.
[Written for the Charing Cross A… Seen, too clear and historic withi… Frown when the Autumn days strike… They of our mortal diseases find n… Errors they of the soul, past the…