#Decadents #English #XIXCentury #XXCentury
At her window gazes over the elms A girl; she looks on the branching… But her eyes possess unfathomed re… Her young hand holds her dreaming… Drifted, the dazzling clouds ascen…
Out of the pale night air, From wandering lone in the warm sc… The sighing, shadowy, bright solit… Of leafy glade, and the rough upla… To thee I come, a branch
Stooping over London, skies convu… With thunder moved: a rumour of st… Hushed them, and birds flew troubl… Up from the West climbing, above… Glowed sullen as copper embossed;…
What wouldst thou with me? By wha… My spirit allure, absorb, compel? The last long beam that thou didst… Is buried now on evening’s brink. The garden’s leafy alleys lone,
Trees are for lovers. A spirit has led them Where the young boughs meet And the green light hovers, And shadowy winds blow sweet.
Ah, now this happy month is gone, Not now, my heart, complain, Nor rail at Time because so soon He takes his own again. He takes his own, the weeks, the h…
The rains of yesterday are flown, And light is on the farthest hills… The homeliest rough grass by the s… To radiance thrills; And the wet bank above the ditch,
When your head leans back slowly,… Muse earnest upon mine and starry… With depths unfathomed that still… And the words fail, and sight with… Whence comes that almost sadness,…
We parted at golden dawn. I feasted my last on her eyes, And journeyed, journeyed alone: Mountains and cities and skies Hurried with cruel pace,
Is it we that are wise, is it we, Who have bought with a price of gr… A wisdom seldom free From scorn or disbelief, Who find this world fulfil
Hither, from thirsty day And stifling labour and the street… To twilight shut away Beyond the soft roar, under hoveri… Hither the gleeful multitudes repa…
Deep in these thoughts, more tende… Whose light ebbs far as in futurit… Deep, deeper yet my blessed spirit… Singing of you still; you and only… Gave me to breathe and touch and t…
But from that blood, those ashes t… Not hoped-for terror cowering as i… But divine anger flaming upon thos… Defamers of the very name of man, Abortions of their blind hyena-cre…
Nothing of itself is in the still’… A still submission to each exterio… Still as a pool, accepting trees a… A candid mirror that never a breat… Nor drifted leaf,—as if of a singl…
The Toy-seller his idle wares Carefully ranges, side by side; With coveting soft earnest airs The children linger, open-eyed. His haunted soul from far away