#EnglishWriters
God gave us an hour for our tears, One hour out of all the years, For all the years were another’s g… Given in a cruel troth of old. And how did we spend his boon?
Deem not my love is only for the b… The honey and the marble, that is… Tis so, Beloved, common loves con… Their treasury, and vanish like th… Nay, but my love’s a thing that’s…
You often ask me, love, how much… Bidding my fancy find An answer to your mind; I say: ‘Past count, as there are… You shake your head and say,
How fast the year is going by! Love, it will be September soon; O let us make the best of June. Already, love, it is July; The rose and honeysuckle go,
The Cry of the Little Peoples we… The Czech and the Pole, and the… We ask but a little portion of the… Only to sow and sing and reap in t… We ask not coaling stations, nor p…
Two stars once on their lonely way Met in the heavenly height, And they dreamed a dream they migh… With undivided light; Melt into one with a breathless th…
To R.K. Leather (July 16th, 1892.) It happened in that great Italian… Where every bosom heateth with a s… At Rimini, anigh that crumbling s…
A woman! lightly the mysterious wo… Falls from our lips, lightly as th… Its meaning, as we say—a flower, a… Or say the moon, the stream, the l… Simple familiar things, mysterious…
Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we may, how wise is love— Love grown old and grey with years… Love whose blood is thinned with t… Philosophic lover I,
What shall I sing when all is sun… And every tale is told, And in the world is nothing young That was not long since old? Why should I fret unwilling ears
All the wide world is but the thou… Who made you out of wonder and of… Was it some god with tears in his… Who loved a woman white and over-w… That strangely put all violets in…
To Irma, Not all my treasure hath the bandi… Locked in his glimmering caverns o… Fair women dead and friendships of… And noble dreams that had to end a…
Noon like a naked sword lies on th… Heavy with gold, and Time itself… The little stream, too indolent to… Loiters below the cloudy willow bo… That build amid the glare a shadow…
I wore my heart upon my sleeve, Tis most unwise, they say, to do— But then how could I but believe The foolish thing was safe with yo… Yet, had I known, ’twas safer far
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!)