#EnglishWriters
Old Elm that murmured in our chim… The sweetest anthem autumn ever ma… And into mellow whispering calms w… When showers fell on thy many colo… And when dark tempests mimic thund…
The crow sat on the willow tree A—lifting up his wings, And glossy was his coat to see, And loud the ploughman sings, 'I love my love because I know
He plays with other boys when work… But feels too clumsy and too stiff… Yet where there’s mischief he can… The first to join and last [to run… What’s said or done he never hears…
Among the taller wood with ivy hun… The old fox plays and dances round… She snuffs and barks if any passes… And swings her tail and turns prep… The horseman hurries by, she bolts…
Within a thick and spreading hawth… That overhung a molehill large and… I heard from morn to morn a merry… Sing hymns to sunrise, and I dran… With joy; and often, an intruding…
What is song’s eternity? Come and see. Can it noise and bustle be? Come and see. Praises sung or praises said
Harvest awakes the morning still And toils rude groups the valleys… Deserted is each cottage hearth To all life save the crickets mirt… Each burring wheel their sabbath m…
When shall I see the white—thorn… And yellowhammers gathering the dr… By the dyke side, on stilly moor o… Feathered with love and nature’s g… Rude is the tent this architect in…
_Now_ is past—the happy _now_ When we together roved Beneath the wildwood’s oak—tree bo… And Nature said we loved. Winter’s blast
Maid of Jerusalem, by the Dead S… I wandered all sorrowing thinking… Thy city in ruins, thy kindred dep… All fallen and lost by the Ottoma… I saw thee sit there in disconsola…
The thistledown’s flying, though t… On the green grass now lying, now… The spring from the fountain now b… Through stones past the counting i… The ground parched and cracked is…
Oh, the world is all too rude for… Oh, this world is but a rude world… Was there a nook in which the worl… That place would prove a paradise… And there to pluck the blackberry,…
I sleep with thee, and wake with t… And yet thou art not there; I fill my arms with thoughts of th… And press the common air. Thy eyes are gazing upon mine,
The small wind whispers through th… Most sharp and chill, where the li… Rest on each twig and spike of wit… Resembling scatter’d feathers;—vai… The pale split sunbeam through the…
For Sunday’s play he never makes… But plays at taw, and buys his Sp… Hard as his toil, and ever slow to… Yet he gives maidens many a burnin… For none can pass him but his witl…