#IrishWriters #Victorian
These are the letters which Endym… To one he loved in secret and apar… And now the brawlers of the auctio… Bargain and bid for each poor blot… Aye! for each separate pulse of pa…
An omnibus across the bridge Crawls like a yellow butterfly, And, here and therem a passer—by Shows like a little restless midge… Big barges full of yellow hay
The sea was sapphire coloured, and… Burned like a heated opal through… We hoisted sail; the wind was blow… For the blue lands that to the eas… From the steep prow I marked with…
The western wind is blowing fair Across the dark Ægean sea, And at the secret marble stair My Tyrian galley waits for thee. Come down! the purple sail is spre…
IS it thy will that I should wax… Barter my cloth of gold for hodden… And at thy pleasure weave that web… Whose brightest threads are each a… Is it thy will—Love that I love s…
To my friend George Fleming autho… 'Mirage’) A year ago I breathed the Italian… And yet, methinks this northern S… These fields made golden with the…
ALBEIT nurtured in democracy, And liking best that state republi… Where every man is Kinglike and n… Is crowned above his fellows, yet… Spite of this modern fret for Lib…
(To Sarah Bernhardt) How vain and dull this common worl… To such a One as thou, who should… At Florence with Mirandola, or wa… Through the cool olives of the Ac…
ITALIA! thou art fallen, though… Of battle—spears thy clamorous arm… From the north Alps to the Sicili… Ay! fallen, though the nations hai… Because rich gold in every town is…
I have no store Of gryphon—guarded gold; Now, as before, Bare is the shepherd’s fold. Rubies nor pearls
TO drift with every passion till… Is as a stringed lute on which all… Is it for this that I have given… Mine ancient wisdom and austere co… Methinks my life is a twice—writte…
I reached the Alps: the soul with… Italia, my Italia, at thy name: And when from out the mountain’s h… And saw the land for which my life… I laughed as one who some great pr…
Could we dig up this long—buried t… Were it worth the pleasure, We never could learn love’s song, We are parted too long. Could the passionate past that is…
Out of the mid-wood’s twilight Into the meadow’s dawn, Ivory limbed and brown-eyed, Flashes my Faun! He skips through the copses singin…
WITHIN this restless, hurried,… We took our hearts’ full pleasure—… And now the white sails of our shi… And spent the lading of our argosy… Wherefore my cheeks before their t…