#EnglishWriters
Her talk was all of woodland thing… Of little lives that pass Away in one green afternoon, Deep in the haunted grass; For she had come from fairyland,
Dear wife, there is no word in all… But unto thee belongs: Though I indeed before our true d… Mistook thy star in many a wanderi… Singing to thee in many a fair dis…
Art was a palace once, things grea… And strong and holy, found a templ… Now ’tis a lazar-house of leprous… O shall me hear an English song a… Still English larks mount in the…
(TO GRANT AND NELLIE ALL… Is it the Spring? Or are the birds all wrong That play on flute and viol, A thousand strong,
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!)
FOR THE BEATRICE CELEB… Nine mystic revolutions of the sph… Since Dante’s birth, and lo! a st… Shining in heaven: and like a lark… Springing to meet it, straight in…
I said-I care not if I can But look into her eyes again, But lay my hand within her hand Just once again. Though all the world be filled wit…
Who will gather with me the fallen… This drift of forgotten forsaken l… Ah! who give ear To the sigh October heaves At summer’s passing by!
My love said she had nought to wea… Her garments all were old, And soon her body must go bare Against the winter’s cold. I took her out into the dawn,
Silence, whose drowsy eyelids are… And whose half-sleeping eyes are t… On whose still breast the water-li… For all her speech the whisper of… Made of all things that in the wat…
(TO MRS. HENRY HARLAND) Paris, half Angel, half Grisette, I would that I were with thee yet… Where the long boulevard at even Stretches its starry lamps to heav…
Paths that wind O’er the hills and by the streams I must leave behind— Dawns and dews and dreams. Trails that go
I bring a message from the stream To fan the burning cheeks of town, From morning’s tower Of pearl and rose I bring this cup of crystal down,
LOUD mockers in the roaring stre… Say Christ is crucified again: Twice pierced His gospel-bearing… Twice broken His great heart i… I hear, and to myself I smile,
Bees make their honey out of colou… Through the June day, with all it… Heather of breezy hills, and idle… Brushing soft doors of every bloss… Filling gold thighs in drowsy ravi…