#EnglishWriters
A FLOWER was growing alone, Then alone and for ever alone: Some one came by, Saw the flower how fair it had gro… Chose it, plucked it to die.
A bird and flower upon the tree, Sweet peony and oriole, Each of them a perfect soul, Song and sweetness manifest The bird and flower we love the be…
Five minutes here, and they must s… shameful! Here have I been five m… and not seen home nor one dear kin… and these abominable slugs, this g… this driver, porters—what are they…
DEAD, my beloved! This small pur… That grows upon thy grave shall ha… To ripen and to wane, to bloom and… But thou, strong doer, mightst not… But thou, oh noblest, mightst not…
‘AND when came I to this town?’… A question asked for the asking’s… Answered merely an answer to make, As stranger to stranger may; Answered enough with ‘Twas yester…
‘OH voice of summer winds among t… What soft news art thou bringing t… Dost thou come whispering of hushe… Languid in sunlight, while the dro… Couch placidly at rest, and from t…
WINGED voice to tell the skies… Dear earth-born lark, sing on, sin… Sing into heaven that she may hear ;Sing what thou wilt, so she but k… Thine ecstasy of summer mirth
I DID not think to love her. As… We pluck a hedge-rose blushing in… Fresh, and at hand; and not the le… That where rich garden blossoms ta… With eddying sweets and wear a tho…
TOO soon so fair, fair lilies; To bloom is then to wane; The folded bud has still To-morrow at its will; Blown flowers can never blow again…
I.' At The Camp. ‘IS she sitting in the meadow Where the brook leaps to the mill, Leaning low against the poplar, Dreamily and still?
No, mother, I am not sad: Why think me sad? I was always st… You remember, even when my heart w… And you used to let me dream at my… And now I like better to watch th…
OH God, where hast thou hidden T… Where is the road to God? Lo, we, that should be old, have l… We are not manly ripe; we have not… Of all the wisdom that a world can…
NAY, tell me not. I will not kno… Because of her my life is bare, A waste where blow-seeds spring an… Then die because the soil is spent… And leave no token they were there…
Birds sing “I love you, love” the… And not another song can they sing… But, singing done with, loving’s d… The autumn sunders every twitterin… And I’d not have love make too mu…
WHAT is it that is dead? Somewhere there is a grave, and so… Cold in the ground, and stirs not… Nor songs that I can make, nor sm… Nor tenderest foolish words that…