#EnglishWriters #RhymedStanza #Victorian
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,
THE groundflame of the crocus bre… Fair Spring slides hither o’er th… Wavers on her thin stem the snowdr… That trembles not to kisses of the… Come Spring, for now from all the…
The last tall son of Lot and Bell… And tallest, Gareth, in a showerf… Stared at the spate. A slender-s… Lost footing, fell, and so was whi… ‘How he went down,’ said Gareth,…
The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased u… Thro’ four sweet years arose and f… From flower to flower, from snow t… And we with singing cheer’d the wa…
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the se… Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea…
'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…
Dark house, by which once more I… Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to… So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp’d no more…
Heaven weeps above the earth all n… In darkness weeps, as all ashamed… Because the earth hath made her st… With selfwrought evils of unnumber… And doth the fruit of her dishonou…
Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers brin… Love is and was my King and Lord,
Tears, idle tears, I know not wha… Tears from the depth of some divin… Rise in the heart, and gather to t… In looking on the happy Autumn-fi… And thinking of the days that are…
OLD FITZ, who from your suburb… Where once I tarried for a while, Glance at the wheeling orb of chan… And greet it with a kindly smile; Whom yet I see as there you sit
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,
You say, but with no touch of scor… Sweet—hearted, you, whose light—bl… Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil—born. I know not: one indeed I knew
Is it, then, regret for buried tim… That keenlier in sweet April wake… And meets the year, and gives and… The colours of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring a…