#EnglishWriters
A poor old king, with sorrow for m… Throned upon straw, and mantled wi… For pity, my own tears have made m… That I might never see my childre… And, may be, madness, like a frien…
She was a woman peerless in her st… With household virtues wedded to h… Spotless in linen, grass-bleached… And pure and clear-starched in her… Thence in my Castle of Imaginatio…
Love thy mother, little one! Kiss and clasp her neck again,— Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp her neck in va… Love thy mother, little one!
‘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?
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—
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
Spring it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown m… When he’s forsaken, Wither’d and shaken,
A lake and a fairy boat To sail in the moonlight clear, - And merrily we would float From the dragons that watch us her… Thy gown should be snow-white silk
Mother of light! how fairly dost t… Over those hoary crests, divinely… Art thou that huntress of the silv… Fabled of old? Or rather dost tho… Those cloudy summits thence to gaz…
Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop,—first let me kiss away… Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he’s poking peas into hi… Thou merry, laughing sprite!
No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day… When every loyal lover tasks his w… His simple truth in studious rhyme… And to his mistress dear his hopes…
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…
Is there a bitter pang for love re… O God! The dead love doth not cos… Than the alive, the loving, the be… Not yet, not yet beyond all hopes… Would I were laid
One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly,
A spade! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe, or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow… A flail, or what ye will— And here’s a ready hand