#EnglishWriters
The rose that drinks the fountain… In the pleasant air of noon, Grows pale and blue with altered h… In the gaze of the nightly moon; For the planet of frost, so cold a…
Oh! there are spirits of the air, And genii of the evening breeze, And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fa… As star-beams among twilight trees… Such lovely ministers to meet
Good-night? ah! no; the hour is il… Which severs those it should unite… Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night goo…
There late was One within whose s… As light and wind within some deli… That fades amid the blue noon’s bu… Genius and death contended. None… The sweetness of the joy which mad…
Before those cruel twins whom at o… Incestuous Change bore to her fat… Error and Truth, had hunted from… All those bright natures which ado… And left us nothing to believe in,…
Listen, listen, Mary mine, To the whisper of the Apennine, It bursts on the roof like the thu… Or like the sea on a northern shor… Heard in its raging ebb and flow
Emily, A ship is floating in the harbour… A wind is hovering o’er the mounta… There is a path on the sea’s azure… No keel has ever plough’d that pat…
Now the last day of many days, All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest and the last, is dea… Rise, Memory, and write its prais… Up,—to thy wonted work! come, trac…
Cold, cold is the blast when Dece… Cold are the damps on a dying man’… Stern are the seas when the wild w… And sad is the grave where a loved… But colder is scorn from the being…
Thy beauty hangs around thee like Splendour around the moon— Thy voice, as silver bells that st… Upon...
THE world’s great age begins anew… The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn; Heaven smiles, and faiths and empi…
Arethusa arose From her couch of snows In the Acroceraunian mountains,— From cloud and from crag, With many a jag,
O Mary dear, that you were here With your brown eyes bright and cl… And your sweet voice, like a bird Singing love to its lone mate In the ivy bower disconsolate;
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry Hours, smile instead, For the Year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sle… And sweet the mild rush of the sof… And sweet is the glimpse of yon di… 'Neath the verdant arcades of yon… But sweeter than all was thy tone…