#EnglishWriters #Victorian
So then, the name which travels si… With English life from childhood—… Means this. The sun is setting. “… Till the sunset, and ended,” says… It lacked the “chord” by stage—use…
Your hands lie open in the long fr… The finger—points look through lik… Your eyes smile peace. The pastur… ‘Neath billowing skies that scatte… All round our nest, far as the eye…
What place so strange,—though unre… With unimaginable fires arise At the earth’s end,—what passion o… Like frost—bound fire—girt scenes… Lo! this is none but I this hour;…
By none but me can the tale be tol… The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold… (Lands are swayed by a King on a… 'Twas a royal train put forth to s… Yet the tale can be told by none b…
“How should I your true love know From another one?” “By his cockle—hat and staff And his sandal—shoon.” “And what signs have told you now
ON a fair Sabbath day, when His… It is pleasant to feast with my L… His stewards stand robed at the fo… Of the soul—filling, life—giving b… All the guests here had burthens;…
Love, should I fear death most fo… Yet if you die, can I not follow… Forcing the straits of change? Al… Shall wrest a bond from night’s in… Ere yet my hazardous soul put fort…
She hath the apple in her hand for… Yet almost in her heart would hold… She muses, with her eyes upon the… Of that which in thy spirit they c… Haply, “Behold, he is at peace,”…
I. HERSELF To be a sweetness more desired tha… A bodily beauty more acceptable Than the wild rose—tree’s arch tha… To be an essence more environing
IT’S copied out at last: very poo… Writ in the cold, with pauses of t… Direct, dear William, to the Post… At Ghent—here written Gand—Gong,… We go to Antwerp first, but shall…
Because our talk was of the cloud—… And moon—track of the journeying f… Her tremulous kisses faltered at l… And her eyes dreamed against a dis… But soon, remembering her how brie…
UPON the landscape of his coming… A youth high—gifted gazed, and fou… The heights of work, the floods of… What friendships, what desires, wh… All things to come. The fanned sp…
‘TIS of the Father Hilary. He strove, but could not pray; so… The steep—coiled stair, where his… A sad blind echo. Ever up He toiled. ’Twas a sick sway of a…
THE weltering London ways where… And girls whom none call maidens l… Miring his outward steps, who inly… The bright Castalian brink and La… Even such his life’s cross-paths;…
Thou lovely and beloved, thou my l… Whose kiss seems still the first;… Even now, as for our love—world’s… Shed very dawn; whose voice, attun… All modulation of the deep—bowered…