#EnglishWriters
It is not blasphemy to hope that… More perfectly will give those nam… Which throb within the pulses of t… And sweeten all that bitterness wh… Infuses in the heaven-born soul.…
Emily, A ship is floating in the harbour… A wind is hovering o’er the mounta… There is a path on the sea’s azure… No keel has ever plough’d that pat…
I loved’alas! our life is love; But when we cease to breathe and m… I do suppose love ceases too. I thought, but not as now I do, Keen thoughts and bright of linked…
Mine eyes were dim with tears unsh… Yes, I was firm—thus wert not tho… My baffled looks did fear yet drea… To meet thy looks—I could not kno… How anxiously they sought to shine
Guido, I would that Lapo, thou, a… Led by some strong enchantment, mi… A magic ship, whose charmed sails… With winds at will where’er our th… So that no change, nor any evil ch…
Hopes, that swell in youthful brea… Live not through the waste of time… Love’s rose a host of thorns inves… Cold, ungenial is the clime, Where its honours blow.
Wake the serpent not’lest he Should not know the way to go,— Let him crawl which yet lies sleep… Through the deep grass of the mead… Not a bee shall hear him creeping,
‘Sleep, sleep on! forget thy pain; My hand is on thy brow, My spirit on thy brain; My pity on thy heart, poor friend; And from my fingers flow
A hater he came and sat by a ditch… And he took an old cracked lute; And he sang a song which was more… ‘Gainst a woman that was a brute.
So now my summer task is ended, M… And I return to thee, mine own he… As to his Queen some victor Knigh… Earning bright spoils for her inch… Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame…
As the sunrise to the night, As the north wind to the clouds, As the earthquake’s fiery flight, Ruining mountain solitudes, Everlasting Italy,
The waters are flashing, The white hail is dashing, The lightnings are glancing, The hoar-spray is dancing— Away!
Ye wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twin… Whom the fair-ankled Leda, mixed… With mighty Saturn’s Heaven-obs… On Taygetus, that lofty mountain… Brought forth in joy: mild Pollux…
No, Music, thou art not the ‘food… Unless Love feeds upon its own sw… Till it becomes all Music murmurs…