#EnglishWriters
HE. Halt here awhile. That mossy-cush… Is for your queenliness a natural… As I am fitly couched on this low… Here at your feet.
Ere that I say farewell to youth,… The homely road that leads to life… Let me be sure again I shall not… To taste the bliss you bid me to f… That Spring’s returning raptures…
In the green darkness of a summer… Wherethro’ ran winding ways, a lad… Carved from the air in curving wom… A maiden’s form crowned by a matro… As, about Lammas, wheat-stems may…
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
Give me thy heart, I leave thee m… But oh! till next our pulses meet, May my fond spirit round thee shin… Absorb thy soul and guide thy feet… And then no more my passion pine,
‘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
‘Why, on this drear December morn… Dost thou, lone Misselthrush, reh… The corals have been rifled from t… The pastures lie undenizened and l… And everywhere around there seems…
Hail! once again, that sweet stron… Loud on my loftiest larch, Thou quaverest with thy mottled th… Brave minstrel of bleak March! Hearing thee flute, who pines or g…
Because I failed, shall I asperse… With scorn or doubt, my failure to… ‘Gainst arduous Truth my feeble f… Like that worst foe, a vain splene… Deem’st thou, self-amorous fool, t…
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…
‘Awake, awake, for the Springtime… March daffodils too long dreaming; The lark is high in the spacious s… And the celandine’s stars are glea… The gorse is ablaze, and the woodl…
Give me a roof where Wisdom dwell… Where honeysuckle smiles and smell… A bleating flock, some lowing kine… An honest welcome always mine, A homely draught, a humble meal,
World! to arms! Do you shrink? What! shrink when the hoofs of the… The bosom of mother, the tonsure o… And the youth of a nation, pain-ma…
Here have I learnt the little tha… Here where in these untutored wood… The primrose, all unconscious of o… Dimpled the dainty coverlet of the… March’s first-born, and, still ave…
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…
