#English
Yea, let me be ‘thy bachelere,’ ’Tis sweeter than thy lord; How should I envy him, my dear, The lamp upon his board. Still make his little circle brigh…
(TO EDMUND GOSSE) Still towards the steep Parnassia… The moon-led pilgrims wend, Ah, who of all that start to-day Shall ever reach the end?
The Rose has left the garden, Here she but faintly lives, Lives but for me, Within this little urn of pot-pour… Of all that was
May is building her house. With a… She is roofing over the glimmer… Of the oak and the beech hath she… And, spinning all day at her se… With arras of leaves each wind-swa…
Away from the silent hills and the… of upland waters, The high still stars and the lonel… in her quarters, I fly to the city, the streets, th…
I saw him in a picture, and I fel… He stood in line, The man ‘for mine,’ A tall silk-hatted 'guy’— Right on the call,
Only a breath-hardly a breath! Th… Is still a huddled alabaster floor Of shelving ice and shattered slab… Stern wreckage of the fiercely fro… Gleaming in mailed wastes of white…
Sometimes my idle heart would roam Far from its quiet happy nest, To seek some other newer home, Some unaccustomed Best: But ere it spreads its foolish win…
‘A Library in a garden! The phrase seems to contain the wh… of man.’-Mr. EDMUND GOSSE in Gossip in a Library A world of books amid a world of g…
Lightnings may flicker round my he… And all the world seem doom, If you, like a wild rose, will wal… Strangely into the room. If only my sad heart may hear
Wild bird, I stole you from your… And cannot find your nest again; To hear you chirp a little while I wrung your mother’s heart with p… And here you sit and droop and die…
Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we may, how wise is love— Love grown old and grey with years… Love whose blood is thinned with t… Philosophic lover I,
My head is at your feet, Two Cytherean doves, The same, O cruel sweet, As were the Queen of Love’s; They brush my dreaming brows
At last I got a letter from the d… And out of it there fell a little… The violet of an unforgotten hour.
(To the Memory of Austin Dobson) Master of the lyric inn Where the rarer sort so long Drew the rein, to 'scape the din Of the cymbal and the gong,