#EnglishWriters #Victorian
DOUBT spake no word in me as the… Loathing, I could not praise: I c… God for the cup of evil that I dr… I dared not cry upon His strength… My soul from weapons it was bent t…
ESSENDO pazzo, il bue al guado… E volta e sfugge e d’acqua và digi… E tu, pittor, che come lui sei Br… Temendo un detto, dici cosa zoppa. Acqua di guado no, ma vino in copp…
Around the vase of Life at your s… He has not crept, but turned it wi… And all its sides already understa… There, girt, one breathes alert fo… Whose road runs far by sands and f…
What other woman could be loved li… Or how of you should love possess… After the fulness of all rapture,… As at the end of some deep avenue A tender glamour of day,—there com…
THROUGH one, years since hanged… Who stabbed backs by the Quarter, Here lieth one who—while Time’s s… Runneth, as God hath taught her, Bearing man’s fame to men,—will ha…
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…
DEAR Jack Alack! A few days back I bound myself by oath to smack My lips o’er sloshy tea, and attac…
She hath the apple in her hand for… Yet almost in her heart would hold… She muses, with her eyes upon the… Of that which in thy spirit they c… Haply, “Behold, he is at peace,”…
MAGGIOR dolore è ben la Ricord… O nell’ amaro inferno amena stanza…
Between the hands, between the bro… Between the lips of Love—Lily, A spirit is born whose birth endow… My blood with fire to burn through… Who breathes upon my gazing eyes,
Once more the changed year’s turni… And as a girl sails balanced in th… And now before and now again behin… Stoops as it swoops, with cheek th… So Spring comes merry towards me…
So then, the name which travels si… With English life from childhood—… Means this. The sun is setting. “… Till the sunset, and ended,” says… It lacked the “chord” by stage—use…
Great Michelangelo, with age grow… And uttermost labours, having once… All grievous memories on his long… This worst regret to one true hear… That when, with sorrowing love and…
Sweet stream—fed glen, why say “fa… Who far’st so well and find’st for… The brow of Time where man may re… Nay, do thou rather say “farewell”… Who now fare forth in bitterer fan…
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,
