#English #Victorians #Women #XIXCentury
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…
Flowers preach to us if we will he… The rose saith in the dewy morn: I am most fair; Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn.
Why does the sea moan evermore? Shut out from heaven it makes its… It frets against the boundary shor… All earth’s full rivers cannot fil… The sea, that drinking thirsteth s…
In the bleak midwinter, frosty win… Earth stood hard as iron, water li… Snow had fallen, snow on snow, sno… In the bleak midwinter, long ago. Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him,…
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…
As eager homebound traveller to th… Or steadfast seeker on an unsearch… Or martyr panting for an aureole, My fellow—pilgrims pass me, and at… That hidden mansion of perpetual p…
Bread and milk for breakfast, And woollen frocks to wear, And a crumb for robin redbreast On the cold days of the year.
Sing me a song — What shall I sing?— Three merry sisters Dancing in a ring, Light and fleet upon their feet
The lily has a smooth stalk, Will never hurt your hand; But the rose upon her briar Is lady of the land. There’s sweetness in an apple tree…
I looked for that which is not, no… And hope deferred made my heart si… But years must pass before a hope… Is resigned utterly. I watched and waited with a steadf…
On the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast,
The year stood at its equinox And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flo… Green hardy things were growing; I met a maid with shining locks
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
I did not chide him, though I kne… That he was false to me. Chide the exhaling of the dew, The ebbing of the sea, The fading of a rosy hue,—
If the moon came from heaven, Talking all the way, What could she have to tell us, And what could she say? ‘I’ve seen a hundred pretty things…