#EnglishWriters #Victorian
Below the thunders of the upper de… Far, far beneath in the abysmal se… His antient, dreamless, uninvaded… The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sun… About his shadowy sides: above him…
Move eastward, happy earth, and le… Yon orange sunset waning slow: From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go: Till over thy dark shoulder glow
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go,
The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife…
Audley Court ‘The Bull, the Fleece are cramm’d… For love or money. Let us picnic… At Audley Court.’ I spoke, while Audley feast
To—night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skie… The forest crack’d, the waters cur…
The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that “this is I… But as he grows he gathers much,
Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, Night, has flo… Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted…
When the breeze of a joyful dawn b… In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flow’d back with… The forward—flowing tide of time; And many a sheeny summer—morn,
How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish’d, tone and t…
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could… The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
Fair is her cottage in its place, Where yon broad water sweetly slow… It sees itself from thatch to base Dream in the sliding tides. And fairer she, but ah how soon to…
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 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
How thought you that this thing co… What are those graces that could m… Who is not worth the notice of a s… To rouse the vapid devil of her ha… A speech conventional, so void of…