#EnglishWriters
'Ah Madam; you’ve indeed come bac… 'Twas sad-your husband’s so swift… And you away! You shouldn’t have… It hastened his last breath.' 'Dame, I am not the lady you thin…
At last! In sight of home again, Of home again; No more to range and roam again As at that bygone time? No more to go away from us
I do not see the hills around, Nor mark the tints the copses wear… I do not note the grassy ground And constellated daisies there. I hear not the contralto note
The church flings forth a battled… Over the moon-blanched sward: The church; my gift; whereto I pa… My all in hand and hoard; Lavished my gains
While the far farewell music thins… And the broad bottoms rip the bear… All smalling slowly to the gray se… And each significant red smoke-sha… Keen sense of severance everywhere…
They hail me as one living, But don’t they know That I have died of late years, Untombed although? I am but a shape that stands here,
“You see those mothers squabbling… Remarks the man of the cemetery. “One says in tears, ‘Tis mine lie… Another, ‘Nay, mine, you Pharisee… Another, ‘How dare you move my fl…
Francois Hippolite Barthelemon, f… composed what was probably the mos… written. It was formerly sung, ful… churches, to Bishop Ken’s words,… He said: ‘Awake my soul, and with…
I found me in a great surging spac… At either end a door, And I said: “What is this giddyin… With no firm—fixéd floor, That I knew not of before?”
The chimes called midnight, just a… And the daytime talk on the Roman… Was checked by silence, save for t… The bubbling waters played near th… And a warm air came up from underg…
“Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin! “But ranged as infantry,
Through snowy woods and shady We went to play a tune To the lonely manor-lady By the light of the Christmas moo… We violed till, upward glancing
At nine in the morning there passe… At ten there passed me by the sea, At twelve a town of smoke and smir… At two a forest of oak and birch, And then, on a platform, she:
I thought you a fire On Heron-Plantation Hill, Dealing out mischief the most dire To the chattels of men of hire There in their vill.
How great my grief, my joys how fe… Since first it was my fate to know… —Have the slow years not brought t… How great my grief, my joys how fe… Nor memory shaped old times anew,