#EnglishWriters #VictorianWriters
When vain desire at last and vain… Go hand in hand to death, and all… What shall assuage the unforgotten… And teach the unforgetful to forge… Shall Peace be still a sunk strea…
Think thou and act; to—morrow thou… Outstretch’d in the sun’s warmth u… Thou say’st: “Man’s measur’d path… Up all his years, steeply, with st… Man clomb until he touch’d the tru…
The lost days of my life until to—… What were they, could I see them… Lie as they fell? Would they be e… Sown once for food but trodden int… Or golden coins squandered and sti…
YESTERDAY was St. Valentine. Thought you at all, dear dove divi… Upon the beard in sorry trim And rueful countenance of him, That Orson who’s your Valentine?
‘There is a budding morrow in midn… So sang our Keats, our English ni… And here, as lamps across the brid… In London’s smokeless resurrectio… Dark breaks to dawn. But o’er the…
ALONG the grass sweet airs are b… Our way this day in Spring. Of all the songs that we have know… Now which one shall we sing? Not that, my love, ah no!—
Because our talk was of the cloud—… And moon—track of the journeying f… Her tremulous kisses faltered at l… And her eyes dreamed against a dis… But soon, remembering her how brie…
In our Museum galleries To—day I lingered o’er the prize Dead Greece vouchsafes to living… Her Art for ever in fresh wise From hour to hour rejoicing me.
PEACE in her chamber, wheresoe’e… It be, a holy place: The thought still brings my soul s… As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and ligh…
TO—NIGHT this sunset spreads tw… Cleaving the western sky; Winged too with wind it is, and wi… Of birds; as if the day’s last hou… Of strenuous flight must die.
SAY, is it day, is it dusk in thy… Thou whom I long for, who longest… Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis… Love’s that is fettered as Love’s… Free love has leaped to that inner…
Your hands lie open in the long fr… The finger—points look through lik… Your eyes smile peace. The pastur… ‘Neath billowing skies that scatte… All round our nest, far as the eye…
LOVE, I speak to your heart, Your heart that is always here. Oh draw me deep to its sphere, Though you and I are apart, And yield, by the spirit’s art,
October, and eleven after dark: Both mist and night. Among us in… Packed heat on which the windows h… Our backs unto the motion—Hunt’s… The last lamps of the Paris Stati…
What is the sorriest thing that en… None of the sins,—but this and tha… Which a soul’s sin at length could… These yet are virgins, whom death’… Might once have sainted; whom the…