#EnglishWriters
All the flowers cannot weave A garland worthy of your hair, Not a bird in the four winds Can sing of you that is so fair. Only the spheres can sing of you;
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…
FOR THE BEATRICE CELEB… Nine mystic revolutions of the sph… Since Dante’s birth, and lo! a st… Shining in heaven: and like a lark… Springing to meet it, straight in…
I said-I care not if I can But look into her eyes again, But lay my hand within her hand Just once again. Though all the world be filled wit…
Beloved, I would tell a ghostly t… That hides beneath the simple name… Wild beyond hope the news—the dead… The shapes that slept, their breat… Ascend from out sarcophagus and ur…
O golden day! O silver night! That brought my own true love at l… Ah, wilt thou drop from out our si… And drown within the past? One wave, no more, in life’s wide…
Don’t you love the eyes that come… The grey-blue eyes so strangely gr… The fighting loving eyes, The eyes that tell no lies– Don’t you love the eyes that come…
May is back, and You and I Are at the stream again— The leaves are out, And all about The building birds begin
To Man in haste, flushed with imp… Of some great thing to do, so slow… The long delay of Time all idle s… Idle the lordly leisure of the sun… So splendid his design, so brief h…
‘This hot, hard flame with which o… Will make some meadow blaze with d… Ay! and those argent breasts of th… To water-lilies; the brown fields… Will be more fruitful for our love…
Once we met, and then there came Like a Pentecostal flame, A word; And I said not, Only thought,
I’m not sorry I am older, love—ar… Over all youth’s fuss and flurry, All its everlasting hurry, All its solemn self-importance and… Perhaps we missed the highest reac…
Her eyes are bluebells now, her vo… And the long sighing grass her ele… She who a woman was is now a star In the high heaven shining down on…
So many times the heart can break, So many ways, Yet beat along and beat along So many days. A fluttering thing we never see,
(TO JOHN FRASER) There, in my mind’s-eye, pure it l… My lodger’s vote! ’Twas mine to-d… It seemed a sort of maidenhood, My little power for public good,—