#EnglishWriters #Victorian
O you chorus of indolent reviewers… Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, Look, I come to the test, a tiny… All composed in a metre of Catull… All in quantity, careful of my mot…
Oh, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final end of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of bl… That nothing walks with aimless fe…
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go,
Old warder of these buried bones, And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smo… Dark yew, that graspest at the sto… And dippest toward the dreamless h…
With trembling fingers did we weav… The holly round the Christmas hea… A rainy cloud possess’d the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. At our old pastimes in the hall
'There sinks the nebulous star we… If that hypothesis of theirs be so… Said Ida; ‘let us down and rest;’… Down from the lean and wrinkled pr… By every coppice-feathered chasm a…
I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and fa… No lower life that earth’s embrace May breed with him, can fright my… Eternal process moving on,
Pellam the King, who held and los… In that first war, and had his rea… But rendered tributary, failed of… To send his tribute; wherefore Ar… His treasurer, one of many years,…
I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes
Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my… To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou woul… There let the wind sweep and the p…
You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till,
Athelstan King, Lord among Earls, Bracelet-bestower and Baron of Barons, He with his brother,
IN her ear he whispers gaily, 'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch’d thee daily… And I think thou lov’st me well.' She replies, in accents fainter,
Old Yew, which graspest at the st… That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bone… The seasons bring the flower again…