#EnglishWriters
My Lady unto Madam makes her bow. The charm of women is, that even w… You’re probed by them for tears, y… Nay, laugh outright, as I have do… The interview was gracious: they a…
Fair and false! No dawn will gree… Thy waking beauty as of old; The little flower beneath thy feet Is alien to thy smile so cold; The merry bird flown up to meet
[Iliad; B. XI V. 378] So he, with a clear shout of laugh… Forth of his ambush leapt, and he… ‘Hit thou art! not in vain flew th… Into the undermost gut, therewith…
Thus piteously Love closed what h… The union of this ever-diverse pai… These two were rapid falcons in a… Condemned to do the flitting of th… Lovers beneath the singing sky of…
O briar-scents, on yon wet wing Of warm South-west wind brushing… You mind me of the sweetest thing That ever mingled frank and shy: When she and I, by love enticed,
Not solitarily in fields we find Earth’s secret open, though one pa… Her plainest, such as children spe… With bird and beast; raised letter… Not where the troubled passions to…
Days, when the ball of our vision Had eagles that flew unabashed to… When the grasp on the bow was deci… And arrow and hand and eye were on… When the Pleasures, like waves to…
Now the frog, all lean and weak, Yawning from his famished sleep, Water in the ditch doth seek, Fast as he can stretch and leap: Marshy king-cups burning near
I am to follow her. There is much… In woman when thus bent on martyrd… They think that dignity of soul ma… Perchance, with dignity of body.… But I was taken by that air of co…
How smiles he at a generation rank… In gloomy noddings over life! The… Not he to feed upon a breast untha… Or eye a beauteous face in a crack… But he can spy that little twist o…
See’st thou a Skylark whose glist… Quiver like pulses beneath the mel… Deep in the heart—yearning distanc… Wisdom and beauty and love are the…
I cannot lose thee for a day, But like a bird with restless wing My heart will find thee far away, And on thy bosom fall and sing, My nest is here, my rest is here;…
When I would image her features, Comes up a shrouded head: I touch the outlines, shrinking; She seems of the wandering dead. But when love asks for nothing,
Thou to me art such a spring As the Arab seeks at eve, Thirsty from the shining sands; There to bathe his face and hands, While the sun is taking leave,
Night, like a dying mother, Eyes her young offspring, Day. The birds are dreamily piping. And O, my love, my darling! The night is life ebb’d away: