#EnglishWriters #Victorian
Dear friend, if there be any bond Which friendship wins not much bey… So old and fond, since thought beg… It may be that whose subtle span Binds Shakespear to an English ma…
AH! dear one, we were young so lo… It seemed that youth would never g… For skies and trees were ever in s… And water in singing flow In the days we never again shall k…
HERE lies Duns Scotus Who died of lotus.
O COOL unto the sense of pain That last night’s sleep could not… O warm unto the sense of joy, That dreams its life within the br… What though I lean o’er thee to s…
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…
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…
By none but me can the tale be tol… The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold… (Lands are swayed by a King on a… 'Twas a royal train put forth to s… Yet the tale can be told by none b…
THE weltering London ways where… And girls whom none call maidens l… Miring his outward steps, who inly… The bright Castalian brink and La… Even such his life’s cross-paths;…
I. HERSELF To be a sweetness more desired tha… A bodily beauty more acceptable Than the wild rose—tree’s arch tha… To be an essence more environing
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.
UPON the landscape of his coming… A youth high—gifted gazed, and fou… The heights of work, the floods of… What friendships, what desires, wh… All things to come. The fanned sp…
REND, rend thine hair, Cassandra… Yea, rend thy garments, wring thin… From Troy still towered to the un… See, all but she that bore thee mo… He most whom that fair woman arms,…
The wind flapped loose, the wind w… Shaken out dead from tree and hill… I had walk’d on at the wind’s will… I sat now, for the wind was still. Between my knees my forehead was,—
It was Lilith the wife of Adam: (Sing Eden Bower!) Not a drop of her blood was human, But she was made like a soft sweet… Lilith stood on the skirts of Ede…
Gustave Flaubert, whose honoured… Was to be scribe to Nero’s soul, And make French flesh to creep an… O’er Carthaginian Salammbô, Lies here—in body, as in the brain…
