#English #Victorians #Women #XIXCentury
Dancing on the hill—tops, Singing in the valleys, Laughing with the echoes, Merry little Alice. Playing games with lambkins
A night was near, a day was near, Between a day and night I heard sweet voices calling clear… Calling me: I heard a whirr of wing on wing,
Underneath the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers: There we shall not count the hours By the shadows as they pass.
‘Oh, sad thy lot before I came, But sadder when I go; My presence but a flash of flame, A transitory glow Between two barren wastes like sno…
My baby has a father and a mother, Rich little baby! Fatherless, motherless, I know an… Forlorn as may be: Poor little baby!
Eight o’clock; The postman’s knock! Five letters for Papa; One for Lou, And none for you,
I would not if I could undo my pa… Tho’ for its sake my future is a b… My past, for which I have myself… For all its faults and follies fir… I would not cast anew the lot once…
Strike the bells wantonly, Tinkle tinkle well; Bring me wine, bring me flowers, Ring the silver bell. All my lamps burn scented oil,
I loved my love from green of Spr… Until sere Autumn’s fall; But now that leaves are withering How should one love at all? One heart’s too small
All the bells were ringing And all the birds were singing, When Molly sat down crying For her broken doll: O you silly Moll!
Rosy maiden Winifred, With a milkpail on her head, Tripping through the corn, While the dew lies on the wheat In the sunny morn.
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…
Sonnets are full of love, and this… Has many sonnets: so here now shal… One sonnet more, a love sonnet, fr… To her whose heart is my heart’s q… To my first Love, my Mother, on w…
I caught a little ladybird That flies far away; I caught a little lady wife That is both staid and gay. Come back, my scarlet ladybird,
Unmindful of the roses, Unmindful of the thorn, A reaper tired reposes Among his gathered corn: So might I, till the morn!