#EnglishWriters
(FOR MR, G. F. WATTS’S P… Mammon is this, of murder and of g… To-day, to-morrow, and ever from o… Th’ Almighty God, and King of ev… Man ‘neath his foot, and woman ’ne…
(TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER) A poet hungered, as well he might– Not a morsel since yesternight! And sad he grew—good reason why— For the poet had nought wherewith…
She’s somewhere in the sunlight st… Her tears are in the falling ra… She calls me in the wind’s soft so… And with the flowers she comes… Yon bird is but her messenger,
Why should I ask perfection of th… That have so little of mine own to… That thou art beautiful from head… Is that, beloved, such a little th… That I should ask more of thee, a…
An animalcule in my blood Rose up against me as I dreamed, He was so tiny as he stood, You had not heard him, though he s… He cried ‘There is no Man!’
Am I so soon grown tired?-yet thi… Can open still each morn so blue a… This great old river still through… Run like a happy boy to holidays, This sun be still a bridegroom, th…
I was reading a letter of yours to… The date—O a thousand years ago! The postmark is there—the month wa… How, in God’s name, did I let you… What wonderful things for a girl t…
The cowbells wander through the wo… ‘Neath arching boughs a stream sli… In all the ferny solitude A chipmunk and a butterfly Are all that is—and you and I.
Dear city in the moonlight dreamin… How changed and lovely is your fac… Where is the sordid busy scheming That filled all day the market-pla… Was it but fancy that a rabble
(A Prefatory Sonnet for SANTA LUCIA, the Misses Hodg… Magazine for the Blind) We, deeming day-light fair, and lo… Its forms and dyes, and all the mo…
All the wide world is but the thou… Who made you out of wonder and of… Was it some god with tears in his… Who loved a woman white and over-w… That strangely put all violets in…
The Décadent was speaking to his… Poor useless thing, he said, Why did God burden me with such a… The body were enough, The body gives me all.
Unless you come while still the wo… A place of birds and the blue drea… In vain has all the singing summer… Unless you come, and share it all… Ah! come, ere August flames its h…
Our tears, our songs, our laurels—… To thee in thy Gethsemane of loss… Stretched in thine unimagined agon… On Hell’s last engine of the Iron… For such a world as this that thou…
The peril of fair faces all his da… No man shall 'scape: be it for joy… Each is the thrall of some predest… Divinely doomed to work his overth… Transiently fair, as flowers in ga…