#EnglishWriters #Victorian
WAVING whispering trees, What do you say to the breeze And what says the breeze to you? ‘Mid passing souls ill at ease, Moving murmuring trees,
Upon a Flemish road, when noon wa… I passed a little consecrated shri… Where, among simple pictures range… The blessed Mary holds her child… To kneel here, shepherd—maidens le…
Eat thou and drink; to—morrow thou… Surely the earth, that’s wise bein… Needs not our help. Then loose me… Thy sultry hair up from my face; t… May pour for thee this golden wine…
These coins that jostle on my hand… No single image: each name here an… Denoting in man’s consciousness an… New change. In some, the face is… In others marred. The badge of th…
The day is dark and the night To him that would search their hea… No lips of cloud that will part Nor morning song in the light: Only, gazing alone,
Sometimes thou seem’st not as thys… But as the meaning of all things t… A breathless wonder, shadowing for… Some heavenly solstice hushed and… Whose unstirred lips are music’s v…
Here meet together the prefiguring… And day prefigured. “Eating, thou… Feet shod, loins girt, thy road—st… With blood—stained door and lintel… By Moses’ mouth in ages passed aw…
When do I see thee most, beloved… When in the light the spirits of m… Before thy face, their altar, sole… The worship of that Love through… Or when in the dusk hours, (we two…
SWEET Poet, thou of whom these… Must one day yet the burdened birt… And by the darkness of thine eyes… How piercing was the sight within… Gifted apart, thou goest to the gr…
What smouldering senses in death’s… Or seizure of malign vicissitude Can rob this body of honour, or de… This soul of wedding—raiment worn… For lo! even now my lady’s lips di…
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,—
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,—
The Orchard—Pit Piled deep below the screening app… They lie with bitter apples in the… And some are only ancient bones th… And some had ships that last year’…
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…
The mother will not turn, who thin… Her nursling’s speech first grow a… But breathless with averted eyes e… She sits, with open lips and open… That it may call her twice. 'Mid…
