#EnglishWriters
The Autumn is old, The sere leaves are flying;— He hath gather’d up gold, And now he is dying;— Old Age, begin sighing!
‘On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors’ houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again pla...
Our hands have met, but not our he… Our hands will never meet again. Friends, if we have ever been, Friends we cannot now remain: I only know I loved you once,
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…
Young Ben he was a nice young man… A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Br… That was a lady’s maid. But as they fetch’d a walk one day…
"Coming events cast their shadow b… I had a vision in the summer light… Sorrow was in it, and my inward si… Ached with sad images. The touch… Gushed down my cheeks:—the figured…
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
Young ardent soul, graced with fai… Spring warmth of heart, and ferven… And still a large late love of all… Spite of the world’s cold practice… For all these gifts, I know not,…
Ah me! those old familiar bounds! That classic house, those classic… My pensive thought recalls! What tender urchins now confine, What little captives now repine,
Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see!… I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she! I staid awhile, to see her throw
‘O breathe not his name!’ —Moore. Thou Great Unknown! I do not mean Eternity, nor Death… That vast incog!
Sleet! and hail! and thunder! And ye winds that rave, Till the sands there under Tinge the sullen wave— Winds, that like a demon
The Song of the Shirt With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread—
An Allegory There’s a murmur in the air, And noise in every street— The murmur of many tongues, The noise of numerous feet—
‘By the North Pole, I do challen… From 'Love’s Labour’s Lost.’ Paery, my man! has thy brave leg Yet struck its foot against the pe… On which the world is spun?