#EnglishWriters
I heard a gentle maiden, in the sp… Set her sweet sighs to music, and… ‘Fly through the world, and I wil… Only for looks that may turn back… ’Only for roses that your chance m…
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold Molten, graven, hammered and rolle… Heavy to get and light to hold, Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold…
There is dew for the flow’ret And honey for the bee, And bowers for the wild bird, And love for you and me. There are tears for the many
An Allegory There’s a murmur in the air, And noise in every street— The murmur of many tongues, The noise of numerous feet—
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don’t go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar. Some fret themselves to death
Alas! That breathing Vanity shoul… Where Pride is buried,—like its v… Uprisen from the naked bones below… In novel flesh, clad in the silent… Of gaudy silk that flutters to and…
Come, let us set our careful breas… Like Philomel, against the thorn, To aggravate the inward grief, That makes her accents so forlorn; The world has many cruel points,
The dead are in their silent grave… And the dew is cold above, And the living weep and sigh, Over dust that once was love. Once I only wept the dead,
“Who hath not felt that breath in… A perfume and freshness strange an… A warmth in the light, and a bliss… When young hearts yearn together? All sweets below, and all sunny ab…
The curse of Adam, the old curse… Though I inherit in this feverish… Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and… And fruitless thought, in Care’s… Yet more sweet honey than of bitte…
The world is with me, and its many… Its woes—its wants—the anxious hop… That wait on all terrestrial affai… The shades of former and of future… Forboding fancies and prophetic te…
Summer is gone on swallows’ wings, And Earth has buried all her flow… No more the lark,—the linnet—sings… But Silence sits in faded bowers. There is a shadow on the plain
I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly queen, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench,
Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how I wake and passionate watches keep… And yet while I address thee now, Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep… ’Tis sweet enough to make me weep,
It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses— We pluck’d them as we pass’d! That churlish season never frown’d