#English #XIXCentury #XXCentury
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…
The cowbells wander through the wo… ‘Neath arching boughs a stream sli… In all the ferny solitude A chipmunk and a butterfly Are all that is—and you and I.
I crossed the orchard, walking hom… The rising moon was at my back, The apples and the moonlight fell Together on the railroad track. Then, speeding through the evening…
(A Prefatory Sonnet for SANTA LUCIA, the Misses Hodg… Magazine for the Blind) We, deeming day-light fair, and lo… Its forms and dyes, and all the mo…
Brother that ploughs the furrow I… God give thee grace, and fruitful… Tis fair sweet earth, be it under… And all about it ever the birds si… Yet do I pray your seed fares not…
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
All beauty is but thee in echo-sha… No lovely thing but echoes some of… Vainly some touch of thy perfectio… Sighing as fair as thou thyself to… Therefore, be not disquieted that…
‘How many queens have ruled and pa… Since first we met; How thick and fast The letters used to come at first, How thin at last;
When last I saw this opening rose That holds the summer in its hand, And with its beauty overflows And sweetens half a shire of land, It was a black and cindered thing,
The heart of the rose-how sweet Its fragrance to drain, Till the greedy brain Reels and grows faint With the garnered scent,
May is building her house. With a… She is roofing over the glimmer… Of the oak and the beech hath she… And, spinning all day at her se… With arras of leaves each wind-swa…
I meant to do my work to—day— But a brown bird sang in the apple… And a butterfly flitted across the… And all the leaves were calling me… And the wind went sighing over the…
Why did she marry him? Ah, say wh… How was her fancy caught? What was the dream that he drew he… Or was she only bought? Gave she her gold for a girlish wh…
This is all that is left—this lett… And do you, poor dreaming things,… That your little fire shall burn f… And this great fire be, all but th… Flower! of course she is—but is sh…
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,