#English #Victorians
Think thou and act; to—morrow thou… Outstretch’d in the sun’s warmth u… Thou say’st: ‘Man’s measured path… Up all his years, steeply, with st… Man clomb until he touch’d the tru…
THE shadows fall along the wall, It’s night at Haye—la—Serre; The maidens weave since day grew e… The lady’s in her chair. O passing slow the long hours go
I stood where Love in brimming ar… Slight wanton flowers and foolish… And round him ladies thronged in w… Fingered and lipped and proffered… And from one hand the petal and th…
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…
ROBE d’or, mais rien ne veut Qu’une rose à ses cheveux. A golden robe, yet will she wear Only a rose in her golden hair.
Is Memory most of miseries misera… Or the one flower of ease in bitte…
The lilies stand before her like a… Through which, upon this warm and… God surely hears. For there she k… Who wafts our prayers to God—Mary… She was Faith’s Present, parting…
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…
What dawn—pulse at the heart of he… Incarnate flower of culminating da… What marshalled marvels on the ski… Or song full—quired, sweet June’s… What glory of change by Nature’s…
Sometimes she is a child within mi… Cowering beneath dark wings that l… With still tears showering and ave… Inexplicably fill’d with faint ala… And oft from mine own spirit’s hur…
Look in my face; my name is Might… I am also call’d No—more, Too—lat… Unto thine ear I hold the dead—se… Cast up thy Life’s foam—fretted f… Unto thine eyes the glass where th…
The wind flapp’d 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,—
Mother of the Fair Delight, Thou handmaid perfect in God’s si… Now sitting fourth beside the Thr… Thyself a woman—Trinity,— Being a daughter born to God,
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,”…
DID she in summer write it, or in… Or with this wail of autumn at her… Or in some winter left among old y… Scratched it through tettered cark… That round her heart the frost was…
