#EnglishWriters #Victorian
How large that thrush looks on the… A swarm of such, three little mont… Had hidden in the leaves and let n… Save by the outburst of their mins… A white flake here and there—a sno…
MAGGIOR dolore è ben la Ricord… O nell’ amaro inferno amena stanza…
Under the arch of Life, where lov… Terror and mystery, guard her shri… Beauty enthroned; and though her g… I drew it in as simply as my breat… Hers are the eyes which, over and…
Behold, even I, even I am Beatri… (Div. Com. Purg. xxx.) OF Florence and of Beatrice Servant and singer from of old, O’er Dante’s heart in youth had t…
TILL dawn the wind drove round m… And still, and leaves the air to l… And to the quiet that is almost he… Of the new—risen day, as yet bound… In the first warmth of sunrise. W…
FROM him did forty million serfs… Each with six feet of death—due so… Rich freeborn lifelong land, where… Their country’s harvest. These to… Demand of Heaven a Father’s blood…
Is it the moved air or the moving… That is Life’s self and draws my… And by instinct ineffable decree Holds my breath quailing on the bi… Nay, is it Life or Death, thus th…
IN a soft—complexioned sky, Fleeting rose and kindling grey, Have you seen Aurora fly At the break of day? So my maiden, so my plighted may
As thy friend’s face, with shadow… Somewhile unto thy sight perchance… Ghastly and strange, yet never so… In thought, but to all fortunate f… As thy love’s death—bound features…
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…
“SORDELLO’S story,” the Sphin… “Who would has heard.” Is that en… 'Twere not amiss to add, has under… Who understood perhaps has profite… For my part I could tell a tale i…
Think thou and act; to—morrow thou… Outstretch’d in the sun’s warmth u… Thou say’st: ‘Man’s measured path… Up all his years, steeply, with st… Man clomb until he touch’d the tru…
YOU say I should not think upon… But then I have stood beside her… And watched her rose—breathed lips… And I can scarcely yet imagine ho… I ever should despise that stately…
YESTERDAY was St. Valentine. Thought you at all, dear dove divi… Upon the beard in sorry trim And rueful countenance of him, That Orson who’s your Valentine?
Not in thy body is thy life at all But in this lady’s lips and hands… Through these she yields thee life… What else were sorrow’s servant an… Look on thyself without her, and r…