#EnglishWriters #Victorian
For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the wood—(she considered him to be a footman bec...
A Mother’s breast: Safe refuge from her childish fear… From childish troubles, childish t… Mists that enshroud her dawning ye… see how in sleep she seems to sing
The Milk—and—Water School Alas! she would not hear my prayer… Yet it were rash to tear my hair; Disfigured, I should be less fair… She was unwise, I may say blind;
I’ll tell thee everything I can; There’s little to relate, I saw an aged, aged man, A—sitting on a gate. ‘Who are you, aged man?’ I said.
From his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood, Made of sliding, folding rosewood; Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly,
A boat, beneath a sunny sky Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July — Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear
Poeta Fit, Non Nascitur “How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? You told me once ‘the very wish Partook of the sublime.’
Five little girls, of Five, Four,… Rolling on the hearthrug, full of… Five rosy girls, in years from Te… Sitting down to lessons —no more t… Five growing girls, from Fifteen…
PREFACE If——and the thing is wildly possib… nonsense were ever brought against… instructive poem, it would be base… ``Then the bowsprit got mixed with…
Blow, blow your trumpets till they… Ye little men of little souls! And bid them huddle at your back - Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on sh… Fill all the air with hungry wails…
Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister—art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some w...
AY, 'twas here, on this spot, In that summer of yore, Atalanta did not Vote my presence a bore, Nor reply to my tenderest talk “S…
Little maidens, when you look On this little story—book, Reading with attentive eye Its enticing history, Never think that hours of play
There was a young lady of station ‘I love man’ was her sole exclamat… But when men cried, 'You flatter’ She replied, 'Oh! no matter Isle of Man is the true explanati…
“AND did you really walk,” said… “On such a wretched night? I always fancied Ghosts could fly… If not exactly in the sky, Yet at a fairish height.”