#EnglishWriters #Victorian
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…
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…
Some ladies love the jewels in Lo… And gold—tipped darts he hath for… In idle scornful hours he flings a… And some that listen to his lute’s… Do love to vaunt the silver praise…
God said, Let there be light; and… Then heard we sounds as though the… And the Earth’s angel cried upon… We saw priests fall together and t… And covered in the dust from the s…
A little while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day’s last sig…
'Twixt those twin worlds,—the worl… No dream to warn,—the tidal world… Which the earth’s sea, as the eart… Shelley, Song’s orient sun, to br… Rose from this couch that morn. A…
Love hath a chamber all of imagery… And there is one dim nook, A little storied web wherein my he… From leaf to leaf is read as in a… One part in the middle of the web…
ESSENDO pazzo, il bue al guado… E volta e sfugge e d’acqua và digi… E tu, pittor, che come lui sei Br… Temendo un detto, dici cosa zoppa. Acqua di guado no, ma vino in copp…
Around the vase of Life at your s… He has not crept, but turned it wi… And all its sides already understa… There, girt, one breathes alert fo… Whose road runs far by sands and f…
I marked all kindred Powers the h… Truth, with awed lips; and Hope,… And Fame, whose loud wings fan th… To signal—fires, Oblivion’s fligh… And Youth, with still some single…
Woolner and Stephens, Collinson,… And my first brother, each and eve… What portion is theirs now beneath… Which, even as here, in England m… For most of them life runs not the…
MAGGIOR dolore è ben la Ricord… O nell’ amaro inferno amena stanza…
This is her picture as she was: It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone. I gaze until she seems to stir,—
OLTRE tomba Qualche cosa? E che ne dici? Saremo felici? Terra mai posa,
O COOL unto the sense of pain That last night’s sleep could not… O warm unto the sense of joy, That dreams its life within the br… What though I lean o’er thee to s…