#EnglishWriters
JUST let the Owl of Evil howl; To mourners of each rank and stati… Come, troll the Golden Bowl! And quaff me with a deep potation. Each sparkling droplet to the soul
I’m the spirit Emmalina thy guard… Drawn hither by a subtle law but f… The golden cord of sympathy I lea… Thy aching brows with lilies to en… I have watched thee late and early…
DECK’D in a many gems of morn, A daffodil without a peer, I reared my head, and treat with s… A one-pearl-gifted daisy near. That very hour, lo! wind-a-rock’d
MY wee, wee fawn, you see me yawn… Well, I’m not much disposed to fl… And were I so, you rogue! you kno… You’re proof against the fiercest… You have an ear? of stone, my dear…
ELEVEN long winters departed Since you and he sailed o’er the m… Dear, dear—I’ve been thrice broke… And thrice—but, ah, let me refrain… There was not a lassie in Plessy,
‘QUEEN PEARL’S own equal—nay, A fairer far am I,’ May Dewdrop… As Sol at break of day Did kiss the sparkler on her grass… ‘None may my charms resist!’
THEY cry, ‘How light the heart a… From which proceed such strains of gladness!’ They can’t discern the pangs that… And seek to drive the bard to madn…
BALOO, my sweet baby—the blossom… I dandle’t till weary, and sigh, With not a bare drop in my bosom To silence its pitiful cry. The red moon above us right rarely…
OH, what is Life? A magic nigh… In which we still to phantoms yiel… And what is Death, if not the lig… By which the real truth’s reveal’d…
AH me, my heart is like to break, The envied rose upon my cheek, The blood red rose is cold and ble… Since he has slighted me. A very shadow lone and pale,
I NEVER said my verse you’d moc… Nor how you’d giggled at my gramma… You, on whom Fame her door has lo… I little mark’d your empty clamour… I merely said that when you’d call…
A SYREN, with her mirror bright… His ear enchants; and while he lis… His image on his dazzled sight, A very jewel gleams and glistens. Ah, could he peer into yon brook,
MUST all the passion which I’ve… So long to hide be paid with scorn… And must a bosom framed for love, Be doomed a hopeless love to mourn… And must thou still its homage spu…
I LIKE the darling critics—like? O, how upon their work I linger, When they their weapons use to str… Not me, but some less happy singer… The treasure of their venom-bags
AT Backworth sung till echo rung, A bard whose feelings were, In what to young and old he sung Of little Dolly Dare. ‘Tho’ Lizzy’s sweet and Polly’s n…