#IrishWriters #Victorian
O SINGER of Persephone! In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily? Still through the ivy flits the be… Where Amaryllis lies in state;
SET in this stormy Northern sea, Queen of these restless fields of… England! what shall men say of the… Before whose feet the worlds divid… The earth, a brittle globe of glas…
IS it thy will that I should wax… Barter my cloth of gold for hodden… And at thy pleasure weave that web… Whose brightest threads are each a… Is it thy will—Love that I love s…
SEE, I have climbed the mountain… Up to this holy house of God, Where once that Angel—Painter tro… Who saw the heavens opened wide, And throned upon the crescent moon
WAS this His coming! I had hoped… A scene of wondrous glory, as was… Of some great God who in a rain o… Broke open bars and fell on Danae… Or a dread vision as when Semele
O well for him who lives at ease With garnered gold in wide domain, Nor heeds the splashing of the rai… The crashing down of forest trees.… O well for him who ne’er hath know…
The western wind is blowing fair Across the dark Ægean sea, And at the secret marble stair My Tyrian galley waits for thee. Come down! the purple sail is spre…
THE silent room, the heavy creepi… The dead that travel fast, the ope… The murdered brother rising throug… The ghost’s white fingers on thy s… And then the lonely duel in the gl…
When Narcissus died the pool of h… sweet waters into a cup of salt te… through the woodland that they mig… comfort. And when they saw that the pool ha…
(NORMANDE.) I AM weary of lying within the ch… When the knights are meeting in ma… Nay, go not thou to the red—roofed… Lest the hooves of the war—horse t…
Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or… Still straitened in their rock—hew… And was Thy Rising only dreamed b… Whose love of Thee for all her si… For here the air is horrid with me…
I— There is no peace beneath the moon… Ah! in those meadows is there peac… Where, girdled with a silver fleec… As a bright shepherd, strays the m…
MY limbs are wasted with a flame, My feet are sore with travelling, For calling on my Lady’s name My lips have now forgot to sing. O Linnet in the wild—rose brake
Could we dig up this long—buried t… Were it worth the pleasure, We never could learn love’s song, We are parted too long. Could the passionate past that is…
I STOOD by the unvintageable se… Till the wet waves drenched face a… The long red fires of the dying da… Burned in the west; the wind piped… And to the land the clamorous gull…