#EnglishWriters
(The Death Of Robert Browning) Now dumb is he who waked the world… And voiceless hangs the world besi… Our words are sobs, our cry of pra… We are the smitten mortal, we the…
Not solitarily in fields we find Earth’s secret open, though one pa… Her plainest, such as children spe… With bird and beast; raised letter… Not where the troubled passions to…
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…
Not solely that the Future she de… And the fair life which in the dis… For all men, beckoning out from di… Nor that the passing hour’s suppor… Have lost the keen-edged flavour,…
O my lover! the night like a broad… Bears us onward, and morn, a black… How I shuddered-I knew not that… Till I looked on thy face:- then… Then I felt like a thing caught b…
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…
The varied colours are a fitful he… They pass in constant service thou… The self gone out of them, therewi… Read that, who still to spell our…
‘Bibber besotted, with scowl of a… Never to join to thy warriors arme… Never for ambush forth with the pr… Dared thy soul, for to thee that t… Sooth, more easy it seems, down th…
He leads: we hear our Seaman’s ca… In the roll of battles won; For he is Britain’s Admiral Till setting of her sun. When Britain’s life was in her sh…
Out in the yellow meadows, where t… Hums by us with the honey of the… And showers of sweet notes from th… Are dropping like a noon-dew, wand… Or is it now? or was it then? for…
What soul would bargain for a cure… Contempt the nobler agony to kill? Rather let me bear on the bitter i… And strike this rusty bosom with n… It seems there is another veering…
[Iliad, B. II V. 455] Like as a terrible fire feeds fast… Up on a mountain height, and the b… So on the bright blest arms of the… Gleam wide round through the circl…
The clouds are withdrawn And their thin-rippled mist, That stream’d o’er the lawn To the drowsy-eyed west. Cold and grey
Now, this, to my notion, is pleasa… To lie all alone on a ragged heath… Where your nose isn’t sniffing for… But a peat-fire smells like a gard… The cottagers bustle about the doo…
Earth loves her young: a preferenc… She prompts them to her fruits and… Their beauty with her choicest int… And makes her revel of their merry… As in our East much were it in ou…