#EnglishWriters #RhymedStanza #Victorian
Birds’ love and birds’ song Flying here and there, Birds’ songand birds’ love And you with gold for hair! Birds’ songand birds’ love
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, So thick with lowings of the herds… Day, when I lost the flower of me… Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling r…
Strong Son of God, immortal Love… Whom we, that have not seen thy fa… By faith, and faith alone, embrace… Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and…
You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till,
To—night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skie… The forest crack’d, the waters cur…
A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fa… Of temper amorous, as the first of… With lengths of yellow ringlet, li… For on my cradle shone the Northe… There lived an ancient legend in o…
O you chorus of indolent reviewers… Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, Look, I come to the test, a tiny… All composed in a metre of Catull… All in quantity, careful of my mot…
Our enemies have fall’n, have fall… The little seed they laugh’d at in… Has risen and cleft the soil, and… Of spanless girth, that lays on ev… A thousand arms and rushes to the…
Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed. To and fro they went
MY good blade carves the casques… My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of… Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth h…
Dosn’t thou ‘ear my ’erse’s legs,… Proputty, proputty, proputty—that’… Proputty, proputty, proputty—Sam,… Theer’s moor sense i’ one o’ 'is l… Woä—theer’s a craw to pluck wi’ th…
That story which the bold Sir Bed… First made and latest left of all… Told, when the man was no more tha… In the white winter of his age, to… With whom he dwelt, new faces, oth…
Oh, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final end of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of bl… That nothing walks with aimless fe…
Is it, then, regret for buried tim… That keenlier in sweet April wake… And meets the year, and gives and… The colours of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring a…
How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish’d, tone and t…