#English #Victorians #Women #XIXCentury
Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even; Hope dead lives nevermore. No, not in heaven. If his shroud were but a cloud
Chide not; let me breathe a little… For I shall not mourn him long; Though the life—cord was so brittl… The love—cord was very strong. I would wake a little space
To think that this meaningless thi… Scentless, colourless, this! Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close?
Sleep, little Baby, sleep, The holy Angels love thee, And guard thy bed, and keep A blessed watch above thee. No spirit can come near
Oh, fair to see Blossom—laden cherry tree, Arrayed in sunny white; An April day’s delight, Oh, fair to see!
Once in a dream I saw the flowers That bud and bloom in Paradise; More fair they are than waking eye… Have seen in all this world of our… And faint the perfume—bearing rose…
Am I a stone, and not a sheep, That I can stand, O Christ, bene… To number drop by drop Thy Blood’… And yet not weep? Not so those women loved
Hear now a curious dream I dreame… Each word whereof is weighed and s… I stood beside Euphrates while it… Like overflowing Jordan in its yo… It waxed and coloured sensibly to…
Twist me a crown of wind—flowers; That I may fly away To hear the singers at their song, And players at their play. Put on your crown of wind—flowers:
Playing at bob cherry Tom and Nell and Hugh: Cherry bob! cherry bob! There’s a bob for you. Tom bobs a cherry
Hope is like a harebell trembling… Love is like a rose the joy of all… Faith is like a lily lifted high a… Love is like a lovely rose the wor… Harebells and sweet lilies show a…
DOES the road wind uphill all th… Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the wh… From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resti…
‘There’s a footstep coming: look o… ‘The leaves are falling, the wind… No one cometh across the lea.’— ‘There’s a footstep coming: O sis… ‘The ripple flashes, the white foa…
Mavel of marvels, if I myself sha… With mine own eyes my King in His… Where the least of lambs is spotle… Where the least and last of saints… Where the dimmest head beyond a mo…
Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing; Where in the whitethorn
