#EnglishWriters #Victorian
CON manto d’oro, collana, ed anel… Le piace aver con quelli Non altro che una rosa ai suoi cap… WITH golden mantle, rings, and n… It likes her best to wear
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…
It is grey tingling azure overhead With silver drift. Beneath, where… The trees are reared, the distance… At peace: and on this side the who… For sowing and for harvest, subjec…
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…
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…
Beholding youth and hope in mocker… From life; and mocking pulses that… When the soul’s death of bodily de… Honour unknown, and honour known u… And penury’s sedulous self—torturi…
HO ye that nothing have to lose!… Come from the sinks of the New Cu… Did ye not hear the mighty sound b… The Seven Dials strike the hour o… Ho cock your eyes, my gallant pals…
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…
Let no man ask thee of anything Not yearborn between Spring and S… More of all worlds than he can kno… Each day the single sun doth show. A trustier gloss than thou canst g…
By thine own tears thy song must t… O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast… Except thy manifest heart; and sav… Anguish or ardour, else no amulet. Cisterned in Pride, verse is the…
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…
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.
Sweet stream—fed glen, why say “fa… Who far’st so well and find’st for… The brow of Time where man may re… Nay, do thou rather say “farewell”… Who now fare forth in bitterer fan…
Never happy any more! Aye, turn the saying o’er and o’er… It says but what it said before, And heart and life are just as sor… The wet leaves blow aslant the flo…
The hour which might have been yet… Which man’s and woman’s heart conc… Yet whereof life was barren,—on wh… Bides it the breaking of Time’s w… Bondchild of all consummate joys s…