#EnglishWriters #Victorian
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…
THE thoughts in me are very calm… That think upon your love: yet by… You shall not greatly marvel that… Or nightfall—yet scarce nightfall—… Leaves me thus sad. Now if you as…
WAVING whispering trees, What do you say to the breeze And what says the breeze to you? ‘Mid passing souls ill at ease, Moving murmuring trees,
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 DID not look upon her eyes, (Though scarcely seen, with no sur… 'Mid many eyes a single look,) Because they should not gaze rebuk… At night, from stars in sky and br…
This feast—day of the sun, his alt… In the broad west has blazed for v… And I have loitered in the vale t… And gaze now a belated worshipper. Yet may I not forget that I was '…
THOU fill’st from the winged cha… Thy lamp, O Memory, fire—winged t…
As when desire, long darkling, daw… The mother looks upon the newborn… Even so my Lady stood at gaze and… When her soul knew at length the… Born with her life, creature of po…
The ark of the Lord of Hosts Whose name is called by the name o… Who dwelleth between the Cherubim… O Thou that in no house dost dwel… But walk’st in tent and tabernacle…
18th November 1852 “VICTORY!” So once more the cry must be. Duteous mourning we fulfil In God’s name; but by God’s will,
WHAT masque of what old wind—wit… Honours this Lady? Flora, wanton—… For birth, and with all flowrets p… Aurora, Zephyrus, with mutual che… Of clasp and kiss: the Graces cir…
Her lute hangs shadowed in the app… While flashing fingers weave the s… Between its chords; and as the wil… The sea—bird for those branches le… But to what sound her listening ea…
SWEET Poet, thou of whom these… Must one day yet the burdened birt… And by the darkness of thine eyes… How piercing was the sight within… Gifted apart, thou goest to the gr…
A Sonnet is a moment’s monument, Memorial from the Soul’s eternity To one dead deathless hour. Look… Whether for lustral rite or dire p… Of its own arduous fulness reveren…