#EnglishWriters
This Riddle rede or die, Says History since our Flood, To warn her sons of power:- It can be truth, it can be lie; Be parasite to twist awry;
Love is winged for two, In the worst he weathers, When their hearts are tied; But if they divide, O too true!
Gracefullest leaper, the dappled f… Curves over brambles with berries… Light as a bubble that flies from… Whisked by the laundry-wife out of… Wavy he comes, woolly, all at his…
Fair and false! No dawn will gree… Thy waking beauty as of old; The little flower beneath thy feet Is alien to thy smile so cold; The merry bird flown up to meet
Am I failing? For no longer can… A glory round about this head of g… Glory she wears, but springing fro… Not like the consecration of the… Is my soul beggared? Something mo…
What may the woman labour to confe… There is about her mouth a nervous… 'Tis something to be told, or hidd… I get a glimpse of hell in this mi… She has desires of touch, as if to…
Mark where the pressing wind shoot… Its skeleton shadow on the broad-b… Here is a fitting spot to dig Lov… Here where the ponderous breakers… And dart their hissing tongues hig…
Should thy love die; O bury it not under ice-blue eyes! And lips that deny, With a scornful surprise, The life it once lived in thy brea…
No, no, the falling blossom is no… Of loveliness destroy’d and sorrow… The blossom sheds its loveliness d… Its mission is to prophecy the fru… Nor is the day of love for ever de…
I am to follow her. There is much… In woman when thus bent on martyrd… They think that dignity of soul ma… Perchance, with dignity of body.… But I was taken by that air of co…
It is no vulgar nature I have wiv… Secretive, sensitive, she takes a… Deep to her soul, as if the sense… And not a thought of vengeance had… No confidences has she: but relief
The clouds are withdrawn And their thin-rippled mist, That stream’d o’er the lawn To the drowsy-eyed west. Cold and grey
Between the fountain and the rill I passed, and saw the mighty will To leap at sky; the careless run, As earth would lead her little son… Beneath them throbs an urgent well…
Yonder’s the man with his life in… Legs on the march for whatever the… Or to the slaughter, or to the mai… Getting the dole of a dog for pay. Laurels he clasps in the words ‘du…
[From the Mireio of Mistral] A hundred mares, all white! their… Like mace-reed of the marshy plain… Thick-tufted, wavy, free o’ the sh… And when the fiery squadron rears