#EnglishWriters #Victorian
It little profits that an idle kin… By this still hearth, among these… Match’d with an aged wife, I mete… Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, a…
Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the ner… And tingle; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame
That story which the bold Sir Bed… First made and latest left of all… Told, when the man was no more tha… In the white winter of his age, to… With whom he dwelt, new faces, oth…
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
Full knee-deep lies the winter sno… And the winter winds are wearily s… Toll ye the church bell sad and sl… And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying.
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Deat… O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? “The stars,” she whispers, “blindl…
Now, scarce three paces measured f… We stumbled on a stationary voice, And ‘Stand, who goes?’ 'Two from… ‘The second two: they wait,’ he s… His Highness wakes:’ and one, tha…
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
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,
My dream had never died or lived a… As in some mystic middle state I… Seeing I saw not, hearing not I h… Though, if I saw not, yet they to… So often that I speak as having s…
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…
I have led her home, my love, my o… There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blo… And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long—wished—…
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…
Dedication These to His Memory—since he held… Perchance as finding there unconsc… Some image of himself—I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tea…
A city clerk, but gently born and… His wife, an unknown artist’s orph… One babe was theirs, a Margaret,… They, thinking that her clear germ… Droopt in the giant-factoried city…