#EnglishWriters
Whither, and whence, and why hast… Thou art dumb, my muse; thou art d… As a waterless stream, as a leafle… What have I done to banish thee? But a moon ago, the whole day long
Slow Time, that carrieth such a m… From every stage and hostel of the… Do you not weary of the endless ro… And ask how long Life’s journeyin… Still growing burden on your patie…
I could not find the little maid… So out I rushed, and sought her f… But not where Pleasure each new f… Heading the maze of reeling merrim… Nor where, with restless eyes and…
Beneath this marble, mute of prais… Is hushed the heart of One Who, whilst it beat, had eagle’s g… To stare upon the sun. Equal in flight
Take not the Gods to task, for th… When they refuse no less than when… Thou canst but know, with all thy… What is thy whim, but never what t… Did they, to smite thine importuni…
I chide not at the seasons, for if… With backward look refuses to be f… My Love still more than April mak… And shows May blossom in the blea… Should Summer fail its tryst, or…
Within the hollow silence of the n… I lay awake and listened. I could… Planet with punctual planet chimin… And unto star star cadencing arigh… Nor these alone: cloistered from d…
Good-bye, old year, good-bye! Gentle you were to many as to me, And so we, meditating, sigh, Since what hath been will be, That you must die.
Go talk to her, sweet flower, To whom I fain would talk Tell her I hour by hour Pine on my own poor stalk. Tell her that I should live
Beside the Convent Gate I stood, Lingering to take farewell of thos… To whom I owed the simple good Of three days’ peace, three nights… My sumpter-mule did blink and blin…
From tangled brake and trellised b… Bring every bud that blows, But never will you find the flower To match an English rose. It blooms with more than city grac…
The popinjay screamed from tree to… Then was lost in the burnished lea… The sky was as blue as a southern… And the swallow came back to the e… So I followed the sound of pipe a…
The flower, full blown, now bends… The mellow fruit inclines the boug… The brow which thought impregnates… Death-stricken is the womb in givi… Cracked is the vase by heat which…
‘Why do I bid the rising gale To waft me from your shore? Why hail I, as the vultures hail, The scent of far-off gore? Why wear I with defiant pride
Could you but give me all that I… I should be richer, and you no mor… Companionship beside the household… And common cares that train one to… ’Tis not your senses, but your sel…