#English #XIXCentury #XXCentury
Bring not your dreams to me— Blown dust, and vapour, and the ru… Saying, ‘He, too, doth dream, Touched of the moon.’ Nay! wouldst thou vanish see
The loveliest face! I turned to h… Shut in 'mid savage rocks and tree… ’Twas in the May-time of the year… And our two hearts were filled wit… And pointed where a wild-rose grew…
Stream that leapt and danced Down the rocky ledges, All the summer long, Past the flowered sedges, Under the green rafters,
When that last pipe is smoked at l… And pouch and pipe put by, And Smoked and Smoker both alike In dust and ashes lie, What of the Smoker? Whither passe…
‘These things are real,’ said one,… On black and mighty shapes of iron… On murder, on madness, on lust, on… And on a thing made all of rattlin… ‘What,’ said he, ‘will you bring t…
You often ask me, love, how much… Bidding my fancy find An answer to your mind; I say: ‘Past count, as there are… You shake your head and say,
Fragoletta, blessed one, What think you of the light of the… Do you think the dark was best, Lying snug in mother’s breast? Ah! I knew that sweetness, too,
Is it your face I see, your voice… Your face, your voice, again after… O is your cheek once more against… And is this blessed rain, angel, y… You have come back,-how strange-ou…
What are my books?—My friends, my… My church, my tavern, and my only… My garden: yea, my flowers, my bee… My only doctors—and my only health…
(TO MRS. HENRY HARLAND) Paris, half Angel, half Grisette, I would that I were with thee yet… Where the long boulevard at even Stretches its starry lamps to heav…
O sad-eyed man who yonder sits, Face in a book from morn till nigh… Who, though the world should go to… Pores on right through the waning… O is it sorrow or delight
The Décadent was speaking to his… Poor useless thing, he said, Why did God burden me with such a… The body were enough, The body gives me all.
Ye are young, ye are young, I am old, I am old; And the song has been sung And the story been told. Your locks are as brown
(WITH APOLOGIES TO ARIEL… Five inches deep Sir Goldfish lie… Here last September was he laid, Poppies these that were his eyes, Of fish-bones were these bluebells…
Once we met, and then there came Like a Pentecostal flame, A word; And I said not, Only thought,