#EnglishWriters #Victorian
Not in thy body is thy life at all… But in this lady’s lips and hands… Through these she yields thee life… What else were sorrow’s servant an… Look on thyself without her, and r…
(In the Academy of Bruges) MYSTERY: God, man’s life, born… Of woman. There abideth on her br… The ended pang of knowledge, the w… Is calm assured. Since first her…
Beauty like hers is genius. Not t… Of Homer’s or of Dante’s heart su… Not Michael’s hand furrowing the… Is more with compassed mysteries m… Nay, not in Spring’s Summer’s swe…
What thing unto mine ear Wouldst thou convey,—what secret t… O wandering water ever whispering? Surely thy speech shall be of her. Thou water, O thou whispering wan…
What shall be said of this embattl… And armèd occupation of this night By all thy foes beleaguered,—now w… Nor sound denotes the loved one fa… Of these thy vanquished hours what…
Could you not drink her gaze like… Yet though its splendour swoon Into the silence languidly As a tune into a tune, Those eyes unravel the coiled nigh…
Those envied places which do know… And are so scornful of this lonely… Even now for once are emptied of h… Nowhere but here she is: and while… From his predominant presence doth…
That lamp thou fill’st in Eros’ n… O Hero, shall the Sestian augurs… To—morrow, and for drowned Leande… To Anteros its fireless lip shall… Aye, waft the unspoken vow: yet da…
Oh! May sits crowned with hawthor… And is Love’s month, they say; And Love’s the fruit that is ripe… By ladies’ eyes in May.
HERE lies Duns Scotus Who died of lotus.
'Twixt those twin worlds,—the worl… No dream to warn,—the tidal world… Which the earth’s sea, as the eart… Shelley, Song’s orient sun, to br… Rose from this couch that morn. A…
O leave your hand where it lies co… Upon the eyes whose lids are hot: Its rosy shade is bountiful Of silence, and assuages thought. O lay your lips against your hand
“Messieurs, le Dieu des peintres”… 'Twas Rubens, sculptured. A mean… Was the next thing we saw,—from va… His drivel. The museum: as we tro… Its steps, his bust held us at bay…
LAY your head here, Mary, Lay your head here, While the blown grass, Mary, With timid voice and wary, Sings in your ear:—
Sometimes I fain would find in th… That I might love thee still in s… Yet how should our Lord Love curt… Thy perfect praise whom most he wo… Alas! he can but make my heart’s l…
