#EnglishWriters #Victorian
Could you not drink her gaze like… Yet though its splendour swoon Into the silence languidly As a tune into a tune, Those eyes unravel the coiled nigh…
What of her glass without her? Th… There where the pool is blind of t… Her dress without her? The tossed… Of cloud—rack whence the moon has… Her paths without her? Day’s appo…
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,”…
What thing unto mine ear Wouldst thou convey,—what secret t… O wandering water ever whispering? Surely thy speech shall be of her. Thou water, O thou whispering wan…
Sometimes I fain would find in th… That I might love thee still in s… Yet how should our Lord Love curt… Thy perfect praise whom most he wo… Alas! he can but make my heart’s l…
The thronged boughs of the shadowy… Still bear young leaflets half the… From when the robin 'gainst the un… Perched dark, till now, deep in th… The embowered throstle’s urgent wo…
To all the spirits of Love that w… Along his love—sown harvest—field… My lady lies apparent; and the dee… Calls to the deep; and no man sees… The bliss so long afar, at length…
Whence came his feet into my field… How is it that he sees it all so d… How do I see his seeing, and how… The name his bitter silence knows… This was the little fold of separa…
I stood where Love in brimming ar… Slight wanton flowers and foolish… And round him ladies thronged in w… Fingered and lipped and proffered… And from one hand the petal and th…
Thin are the night-skirts left beh… By daybreak hours that onward cree… And thin, alas! the shred of sleep That wavers with the spirit’s wind… But in half-dreams that shift and…
SHE fluted with her mouth as when… And gently waved her golden head,… Outside his cage close to the wind… Till her fond bird, with little tu… Piped low to her of sweet companio…
Beauty like hers is genius. Not t… Of Homer’s or of Dante’s heart su… Not Michael’s hand furrowing the… Is more with compassed mysteries m… Nay, not in Spring’s Summer’s swe…
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…
I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with th… And climbing for the prize, was to… And fouled my feet in quag—water; And by the thorns and by the wind
What smouldering senses in death’s… Or seizure of malign vicissitude Can rob this body of honour, or de… This soul of wedding—raiment worn… For lo! even now my lady’s lips di…