#EnglishWriters #Victorian
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…
“Why did you melt your waxen man Sister Helen? To—day is the third since you bega… “The time was long, yet the time r… Little brother.”
The gloom that breathes upon me wi… Is like the drops which stike the… Who knows not, darkling, if they b… Fresh storm, or be old rain the co… Ah! bodes this hour some harvest o…
THE head and hands of murdered C… Above his seat high in the Forum… Drew jeers and burning tears. Whe… Of a swift—mounted ladder, all agl… Fluvia, Mark Antony’s shameless w…
IN this new shade of Death, the s… Passes me still of form and face; Some bent, some gazing as they go, Some swiftly, some at a dull pace, Not one that speaks in any case.
“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…
Once more the changed year’s turni… And as a girl sails balanced in th… And now before and now again behin… Stoops as it swoops, with cheek th… So Spring comes merry towards me…
ON a fair Sabbath day, when His… It is pleasant to feast with my L… His stewards stand robed at the fo… Of the soul—filling, life—giving b… All the guests here had burthens;…
Andromeda, by Perseus sav’d and w… Hanker’d each day to see the Gorg… Till o’er a fount he held it, bade… And mirror’d in the wave was safel… That death she liv’d by.
As one who, groping in a narrow st… Hath a strong sound of bells upon… Which, being at a distance off, ap… Quite close to him because of the… So with this France. She stumbles…
The turn of noontide has begun. In the weak breeze the sunshine yi… There is a bell upon the fields. On the long hedgerow’s tangled run A low white cottage intervenes:
Look in my face; my name is Might… I am also called No—more, Too—lat… Unto thine ear I hold the dead—se… Cast up thy Life’s foam—fretted f… Unto thine eyes the glass where th…
Was that the landmark? What,—the… Whose wave, low down, I did not s… But sat and flung the pebbles from… In sport to send its imaged skies… (And mine own image, had I noted…
SHE knew it not:—most perfect pai… To learn: this too she knew not.… For me, calm hers, as from the fir… 'Twas but another bubble burst Upon the curdling draught of life,…