#EnglishWriters #VictorianWriters
Thou, who dost dwell alone; Thou, who dost know thine own; Thou, to whom all are known, From the cradle to the grave,— Save, O, save!
Because thou hast believ’d, the wh… Stand never idle, but go always ro… Not by their hands, who vex the pa… Mov’d only; but by genius, in the… Of all its chafing torrents after…
Long fed on boundless hopes, O ra… How angrily thou spurn’st all simp… “Christ,” some one says, “was huma… No judge eyes us from Heaven, our… We live no more, when we have done…
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffu… With rain, where thick the crocus… Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent… The bridge is cross’d, and slow we…
Why each is striving, from of old, To love more deeply than he can? Still would be true, yet still gro… —Ask of the Powers that sport wit… They yok’d in him, for endless str…
If, in the silent mind of One all… At first imagin’d lay The sacred world; and by processio… From those still deeps, in form an… Seasons alternating, and night and…
Others abide our question. Thou a… We ask and ask—Thou smilest and a… Out-topping knowledge. For the lo… Who to the stars uncrowns his maje… Planting his steadfast footsteps i…
Ye storm-winds of Autumn Who rush by, who shake The window, and ruffle The gleam-lighted lake; Who cross to the hill-side
Go, for they call you, shepherd, f… Go, shepherd, and untie the wattle… No longer leave thy wistful flock… Nor let thy bawling fellows rack t… Nor the cropp’d herbage shoot anot…
Light flows our war of mocking wor… Behold, with tears mine eyes are w… I feel a nameless sadness o’er me… Yes, yes, we know that we can jest… We know, we know that we can smile…
In this fair stranger’s eyes of gr… Thine eyes, my love, I see. I shudder: for the passing day Had borne me far from thee. This is the curse of life! that no…
TRISTRAM IS she not come? The messenger wa… Prop me upon the pillows once agai… Raise me, my Page: this cannot lo… Christ! what a night! how the slee…
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Gree… Long since, saw Byron’s struggle… But one such death remain’d to com… The last poetic voice is dumb. What shall be said o’er Wordswort…
God knows it, I am with you. If t… Those virtues, priz’d and practis’… But priz’d, but lov’d, but eminent… Man’s fundamental life: if to desp… The barren optimistic sophistries
The Castle Down the Savoy valleys sounding, Echoing round this castle old, 'Mid the distant mountain-chalets Hark! what bell for church is toll…
