#English #Victorians
Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, D… Not untwist —slack they may be —th… In me ór, most weary, cry I can n… Can something, hope, wish day come… But ah, but O thou terrible, why…
As a dare—gale skylark scanted in… Man’s mounting spirit in his bone—… That bird beyond the remembering h… This in drudgery, day—labouring—ou… Though aloft on turf or perch or p…
May is Mary’s month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season— Candlemas, Lady Day;
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in… Around; up above, what wind-walks!… Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, w… Meal-drift moulded ever and melted… I walk, I lift up, I lift up hear…
Sometimes a lantern moves along th… That interests our eyes. And who… I think; where from and bound, I… With, all down darkness wide, his… Men go by me whom either beauty br…
God with honour hang your head, Groom, and grace you, bride, your… With lissome scions, sweet scions, Out of hallowed bodies bred. Each by other’s comfort kind:
Pure fasted faces draw unto this f… God comes all sweetness to your L… You striped in secret with breath—… Those crooked rough—scored chequer… To crosses meant for Jesu’s; you…
Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for,… Ah! ás the heart grows older
To seem the stranger lies my lot,… Among strangers. Father and mothe… Brothers and sisters are in Chris… And he my peace my parting, sword… England, whose honour O all my he…
Thou mastering me God! giver of breath and bread; World’s strand, sway of the sea; Lord of living and dead; Thou hast bound bones & veins in m…
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonf… As tumbled over rim in roundy well… Stones ring; like each tucked stri… Bow swung finds tongue to fling ou… Each mortal thing does one thing a…
Thee, God, I come from, to thee g… All day long I like fountain flow From thy hand out, swayed about Mote—like in thy mighty glow. What I know of thee I bless,
. . . . . . . . Hope holds to Christ the mind’s o… To take His lovely likeness more… It will not well, so she would bri… An ever brighter burnish than befo…
Honour is flashed off exploit, so… And those strokes once that gashed… Should tongue that time now, trump… And, on the fighter, forge his glo… On Christ they do and on the mart…
‘The child is father to the man.’ How can he be? The words are wild… Suck any sense from that who can: ‘The child is father to the man. No; what the poet did write ran,
