#EnglishWriters #VictorianWriters
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…
I would I were the drop of rain That falls into the dancing rill, For I should seek the river then, And roll below the wooded hill, Until I reached the sea.
When Sir Gawain was led to his br… By Arthur’s knights in scorn God-… How think you he felt? O the bride within Was yellow and dry as a snake’s ol…
Once I was part of the music I he… On the boughs or sweet between ear… For joy of the beating of wings on… My heart shot into the breast of t… I hear it now and I see it fly,
Historic be the survey of our kind… And how their brave Society took… Lion, wolf, vulture, fox, jackal a… The strong of limb, the keen of no… Who, with some jars in harmony, co…
I stood at the gate of the cot Where my darling, with side-glance… Would spy, on her trim garden-plot… The busy wild things chase and lur… For these with their ways were her…
By this he knew she wept with waki… That, at his hand’s light quiver b… The strange low sobs that shook th… Were called into her with a sharp… And strangled mute, like little ga…
See the sweet women, friend, that… The ever-falling fountain of green… Round the white bending stem, and… Of our most blushful flower shine… To teach philosophers the thirst o…
With Life and Death I walked whe… And made them on each side a shado… Through wooded vales the land of d… Where down smooth rapids whirls th… To fall on daylight; and night put…
The shepherd, with his eye on hazy… Has told of rain upon the fall of… But promise is there none for Sus… That he will come, who keeps in dr… The freshest of the village three…
When I remember, friend, whom los… Because a man beloved is taken hen… The tender humour and the fire of… In your good eyes; how full of hea… And chiefly for the weaker by the…
Not vainly doth the earnest voice… Call for the thing that is his pur… Fame is the birthright of the livi… To noble impulse Nature puts no b… Nor vainly to the Sphinx thy voic…
I know him, February’s thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns… Now ere the foreign singer thrills
[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 Snowdrop is the prophet of th… It lives and dies upon its bed of… And like a thought of spring it co… Hanging its head beside our leafle… The sun’s betrothing kiss it never…