#English #XIXCentury #XXCentury
The valiant girls—of them I sing— Who daily to their business go, Happy as larks, and fresh as sprin… They are the bravest things I kno… At eight, from out my lazy tower,
(WITH APOLOGIES TO ARIEL… Five inches deep Sir Goldfish lie… Here last September was he laid, Poppies these that were his eyes, Of fish-bones were these bluebells…
An animalcule in my blood Rose up against me as I dreamed, He was so tiny as he stood, You had not heard him, though he s… He cried ‘There is no Man!’
The peril of fair faces all his da… No man shall 'scape: be it for joy… Each is the thrall of some predest… Divinely doomed to work his overth… Transiently fair, as flowers in ga…
Why should I ask perfection of th… That have so little of mine own to… That thou art beautiful from head… Is that, beloved, such a little th… That I should ask more of thee, a…
Always thy book, too late acknowle… Now when thine eyes no earthly pag… Blinded with death, or blinded wit… Of love’s own lore celestial. Sma… Forsooth, for thee to read my eart…
God of the Wine List, roseate lor… And is it really then good-by? Of Prohibitionists abhorred, Must thou in sorry sooth then die, (O fatal morning of July!)
Who dough shall knead as for God’… Shall fill it with celestial leave… And every loaf that she shall bake Be eaten of the Blest in heaven.
(January 19, 1909) Poet of doom, dementia, and death, Of beauty singing in a charnel hou… Like the lost soul of a poor moon-… With too much loving of some lord…
How thick the grass, How green the shade– All for love And lovers made. Wood-lilies white
Who was it swept against my door j… With rustling robes like Autumn’s… Ah! would it were thy gown against… Only thy gown once more. Sometimes the snow, sometimes the…
The sun is weary, for he ran So far and fast to-day; The birds are weary, for who sang So many songs as they? The bees and butterflies at last
I am so fair that wheresoe’er I w… Men yearn with strange desire to k… Stretch out their hands to touch m… And women follow me from place to… A poet writing honey of his dear
Friends whom to-night once more I… Most glad am I with you to be, And, as I look around, I meet Many a face right good to see; But one I miss—ah! where is he?—
O ships upon the sea, O shapes of… O lands whose names are made of sp… Old painted empires that are ever… From Cochin-China down to Zanzib… O Beauty simple, soul-less, and b…
