#Decadents #English #XIXCentury #XXCentury
Life from sunned peak, witched woo… A hundred ways the eager spirit wo… To roam, to dream, to conquer, to… Yet in its ear a voice cries ever,… So many ways, yet only one shall f…
No more of sorrow, the world’s old… Nor war of thronging spirits numbe… Immortal ardours in brief days con… No more the languid fever of manki… To—day I sing: ’tis no melodious…
With proud thanksgiving, a mother… England mourns for her dead across… Flesh of her flesh they were, spir… Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill; Death au…
Effigy mailed and mighty beneath t… That liest asleep with hand upon c… As ready to waken and strong to st… Death, where hosts are shaken and… Here in the pillared peace thy fat…
What boat is this that bears My soul on an ocean, fanned By new arriving airs From an undiscovered land? Is this Love’s magic boat, and th…
Of a tower, of a tower, white In the warm Italian night, Of a tower that shines and springs I dream, and of our delight. Of doves, of a hundred wings
But sudden in the hush between Death and the doomed, there stands Against those levelled guns a prie… Gentle, with outstretched hands. Be not as guilty as they! he cries…
Love grasps my heart in a net Like the strong roots of a flower; So surely his root is set In my spirit, to hold me with powe… Yet to—night, O forgive me, Dear!
Over fast-closed baby eyes In the garden’s golden air Blossom-white the butterflies Hover, hurry, part and pair, Sudden shinings, flown nowhere!
In the high leaves of a walnut, On the very topmost boughs, A boy that climbed the branching b… His cradled limbs would house. On the airy bed that rocked him
Huge through the darkened street The Dray comes, rolling an uneven… Of wheels and trampling feet; The shaken windows stare in sleepy… Now through an open space,
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,
Coiled in shadow, the serpent seas Engirdle perilous hills sublime: By tortuous, steep degrees Toward the morn I climb. Before me the mountain soaring vas…
Fir, that on this moor austere, Without kin or neighbour near, Utterest now bleak winter’s moan As if its vext soul were thine own… Unbefriended, placed like thee,
Still for your frontier stands The host that knew no dread, Your little, stubborn land’s Nameless, immortal dead.