#English #Victorians #Women #XIXCentury
A rose has thorns as well as honey… I’ll not have her for love or mone… An iris grows so straight and fine… That she shall be no friend of min… Snowdrops like the snow would chil…
I plucked pink blossoms from mine… And wore them all that evening in… Then in due season when I went to… I found no apples there. With dangling basket all along the…
She gave up beauty in her tender y… Gave all her hope and joy and plea… She covered up her eyes lest they… On vanity, and chose the bitter tr… Harsh towards herself, towards oth…
The rose with such a bonny blush, What has the rose to blush about? If it’s the sun that makes her flu… What’s in the sun to flush about?
When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me
O wind, where have you been, That you blow so sweet? Among the violets Which blossom at your feet. The honeysuckle waits
Vanity of vanities, the Preacher… All things are vanity. The eye an… Cannot be filled with what they se… Like early dew, or like the sudden… Of wind, or like the grass that wi…
What can lambkins do All the keen night through? Nestle by their woolly mother The careful ewe. What can nestlings do
She sat alway thro’ the long day Spinning the weary thread away; And ever said in undertone: ‘Come, that I be no more alone.’ From early dawn to set of sun
Your brother has a falcon, Your sister has a flower; But what is left for mannikin, Born within a hour? I’ll nurse you on my knee, my knee…
Every valley drinks, Every dell and hollow; Where the kind rain sinks and sink… Green of Spring will follow. Yet a lapse of weeks
The wind has such a rainy sound Moaning through the town, The sea has such a windy sound, — Will the ships go down? The apples in the orchard
Angels at the foot, And Angels at the head, And like a curly little lamb My pretty babe in bed.
When a mounting skylark sings In the sunlit summer morn, I know that heaven is up on high, And on earth are fields of corn. But when a nightingale sings
Three little children On the wide wide earth, Motherless children— Cared for from their birth By tender angels.