#EnglishWriters
Artist, whose hand, with horror wi… From the rank life of towns this l… The prodigy of full-blown crime am… Valleys and men to middle fortune… Not innocent, indeed, yet not forl…
In this fair stranger’s eyes of gr… Thine eyes, my love, I see. I shudder: for the passing day Had borne me far from thee. This is the curse of life! that no…
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Gree… Long since, saw Byron’s struggle… But one such death remain’d to com… The last poetic voice is dumb— We stand to-day by Wordsworth’s t…
What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the for… The luster of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wre… —Yes, but not this alone.
Coldly, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither’d leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace,
I must not say that thou wert true… Yet let me say that thou wert fair… And they that lovely face who view… They will not ask if truth be ther… Truth—what is truth? Two bleeding…
I too have suffer’d: yet I know She is not cold, though she seems… She is not cold, she is not light; But our ignoble souls lack might. She smiles and smiles, and will no…
When I shall be divorced, some te… From this poor present self which… When youth has done its tedious va… Of passions that for ever ebb and… Shall I not joy youth’s heats are…
AFFECTIONS, Instincts, Princ… Impulse and Reason, Freedom and… So men, unravelling God’s harmoni… Rend in a thousand shreds this lif… Vain labour! Deep and broad, wher…
Why, when the World’s great mind Hath finally inclin’d, Why, you say, Critias, be debatin… Why, with these mournful rhymes Learn’d in more languid climes,
In * the cedar shadow sleeping, Where cool grass and fragrant gloo… Oft at noon have lur’d me, creepin… From your darken’d palace rooms: I, who in your train at morning…
Still glides the stream, slow drop… Under the rustling poplars’ shade; Silent the swans beside us float— None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn… Let those arch eyes now softly shi…
Hark! ah, the nightingale— The tawny-throated! Hark, from that moonlit cedar what… What triumph! hark!—what pain! O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
TRISTRAM IS she not come? The messenger wa… Prop me upon the pillows once agai… Raise me, my Page: this cannot lo… Christ! what a night! how the slee…
Even in a palace, life may be led… So spake the imperial sage, purest… Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling… Of common life, where, crowded up… Our freedom for a little bread we…