#EnglishWriters #VictorianWriters
Patience, hard thing! the hard thi… But bid for, Patience is! Patienc… Wants war, wants wounds; weary his… To do without, take tosses, and ob… Rare patience roots in these, and,…
Not of all my eyes see, wandering… Is anything a milk to the mind so,… Poetry to it, as a tree whose boug… Say it is ashboughs: whether on a… Fast ór they in clammyish lashtend…
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…
Look at the stars! look, look up a… O look at all the fire—folk sittin… The bright boroughs, the circle—ci… Down in dim woods the diamond delv… The grey lawns cold where gold, wh…
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I… With thee; but, sir, so what I pl… Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and… Disappointment all I endeavour en… Wert thou my enemy, O thou my fri…
What being in rank—old nature shou… That hére pérsonal tells off these… A bush—browed, beetle—brówed bíllo… With a soúth—wésterly wínd blúster… Of crumbling, fore—foundering, thu…
Glory be to God for dappled thing… For skies of couple—colour as a br… For rose—moles all in stipple upon… Fresh—firecoal chestnut—falls; fin… Landscape plotted and pieced– fold…
The fine delight that fathers thou… Spur, live and lancing like the bl… Breathes once and, quenchèd faster… Leaves yet the mind a mother of im… Nine months she then, nay years, n…
Teevo cheevo cheevio chee: O where, what can tháat be? Weedio—weedio: there again! So tiny a trickle of sóng—strain; And all round not to be found
I caught this morning morning’s mi… dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple—… Of the rolling level underneath hi… High there, how he rung upon the r… In his ecstasy! then off, off fort…
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…
O I admire and sorrow! The heart’… Discovering you, dark tramplers, t… A juice rides rich through bluebel… And beauty’s dearest veriest vein… Happy the father, mother of these!…
Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear. Shape nothing, lips; be lovely—dum…
