#EnglishWriters #Victorian
Is it, then, regret for buried tim… That keenlier in sweet April wake… And meets the year, and gives and… The colours of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring a…
Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flow… Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted…
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the se… Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea…
Home they brought her warrior dead… She nor swoon’d nor utter’d cry: All her maidens, watching, said, “She must weep or she will die.” Then they praised him, soft and lo…
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go,
I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes
Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloomed the stagnant a… I peered athwart the chancel pane And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet,
On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the… And thro’ the field the road runs… To many—tower’d Camelot;
Full knee-deep lies the winter sno… And the winter winds are wearily s… Toll ye the church bell sad and sl… And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying.
Below the thunders of the upper de… Far, far beneath in the abysmal se… His antient, dreamless, uninvaded… The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sun… About his shadowy sides: above him…
Athelstan King, Lord among Earls, Bracelet-bestower and Baron of Barons, He with his brother,
To—night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skie… The forest crack’d, the waters cur…
So all day long the noise of battl… Among the mountains by the winter… Until King Arthur’s table, man by… Had fallen in Lyonnesse about the… King Arthur: then, because his wo…
“So careful of the type?” but no. From scarped cliff and quarried st… She cries, “A thousand types are… I care for nothing, all shall go. ”Thou makest thine appeal to me:
Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro’ the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the grou… Calm and deep peace on this high w…