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Alfred Austin

Alfred Austin

Love’s Trinity

SOUL, heart, and body, we thus singly name,
Are not in love divisible and distinct, But each with each inseparably link’d. One is not honour, and the other shame,
But burn as closely fused as fuel, heat, and flame.
 
They do not love who give the body and keep
The heart ungiven; nor they who yield the soul, And guard the body. Love doth give the whole; Its range being high as heaven, as ocean deep,
Wide as the realms of air or planet’s curving sweep.

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Altre opere di Alfred Austin...
By the Fates

By the fates that have fastened ou… By the distance that holds us apar… By our passion, its sweetness, its… By the longing and ache of the hea… By our meeting, our parting, our p…
Pax Britannica

Behind her rolling ramparts Engla… Impregnable, and girt by cliff-bui… Weaving to peace and plenty, day b… The long-drawn hours. In peace Spring freed her flocks…
Dead!

Hush! or you’ll wake her. Softly… She slumbers in her little bed. What do I see? A coffin! Dead? Yes, dead at break of morning. No, no, it cannot, cannot be!
A Christmas Carol

Hark! In the air, around, above, The Angelic Music soars and swell… And, in the Garden that I love, I hear the sound of Christmas Bel… From hamlet hollow, village height…
The Passing of the Primroses

Primroses, why do you pass away? Primroses Nay, rather, why should we longer… We are not needed, now stooping sh… Have sandalled the feet of May wi…
At Shelley’s House at Lerici

Maiden, with English hair, and ey… The colour of Italian skies, What seek you by this shore? ‘I seek, sir, for the latest home Where Shelley dwelt, and, o’er th…
Leszko the Bastard

‘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
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On Returning to England

There! once again I stand on home… Though round me still there swirls… Leaping athwart the vessel’s track To bid a wanderer welcome back, And though as yet through softenin…
Three Sonnets Written in Mid-Channel

Now upon English soil I soon shal… Homeward from climes that fancy de… And well I know that there will g… No soft foam fawning upon smiling… No scent of orange-groves, no zeph…
Gleaners of Fame

Hearken not, friend, for the resou… That did the Poet’s verses once a… We are but gleaners in the field o… Whence the main harvest hath been… The sheaves of glory you are fain…
In Praise of England

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…
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To Robert Louis Stevenson

I never saw you, never grasped you… Nor wrote nor read lines absence l… Ne’er with you sate in your accust… Nor waited for your coming on sea… But this I know, if along unseen…
The Haymakers’ Song

Here’s to him that grows it, Drink, lads, drink! That lays it in and mows it, Clink, jugs, clink! To him that mows and makes it,
The Mountains

The Mountains What ails you, Ocean, that nor ne… Find you a bourne to ease your bur… But throughout time inexorable are Never at rest?
At Delphi

Apollo! Apollo! Apollo! Where hast thou, Apollo, gone? I have wandered on and on, Through the shaggy Dorian gorges, Down from where Parnassus forges



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