#English #XIXCentury #XXCentury
The two were silent in a sunless c… Whose mildewed walls, uneven pavin… And wasted carvings passed antique… And nothing broke the clock’s dull… Leaning against a wormy poppy—head…
I traced the Circus whose gray st… Where Rome and dim Etruria interj… Till came a child who showed an an… That bore the image of a Constant… She lightly passed; nor did she on…
It was a wet wan hour in spring, And Nature met King Doom beside… Wherein Hodge trudged, all blithe… The Mother’s smiling reign. "Why warbles he that skies are…
Where once we danced, where once w… Gentlemen, The floors are sunken, cobwebs han… And cracks creep; worms have fed u… The doors. Yea, sprightlier times…
(at a Cathedral Service) THAT from this bright believing… An outcast I should be, That faiths by which my comrades s… Seem fantasies to me,
He was leaning by a face, He was looking into eyes, And he knew a trysting-place, And he heard seductive sighs; But the face,
at news of her death Not a line of her writing have I Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame i… I may picture her there;
Everybody else, then, going, And I still left where the fair w… Much have I seen of neighbour lou… Making a lusty showing, Each now past all knowing.
Who, then, was Cestius, And what is he to me? - Amid thick thoughts and memories m… One thought alone brings he. I can recall no word
He enters, and mute on the edge of… Sits a thin—faced lady, a stranger… A type of decayed gentility; And by some small signs he well ca… That she comes to him almost break…
(As sung by Mr. Charles Charring… O MY trade it is the rarest one, Simple shepherds all— My trade is a sight to see; For my customers I tie, and take…
WHEN I look forth at dawning, po… Field, flock, and lonely tree, All seem to look at me Like chastened children sitting si… Their faces dulled, constrained, a…
Yes; your up—dated modern page— All flower—fresh, as it appears— Can claim a time-tried lineage, That reaches backward fifty years (Which, if but short for sleepy sq…
NOT a line of her writing have I… Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame i… I may picture her there; And in vain do I urge my unsight
How I was caught Hieing home, after days of allure, And driven to an inn’small, obsc… At the junction, fret-fraught! How civil my face