y stl m vwls gv thm bck (manjumymanji) wrote in egl_books,
y stl m vwls gv thm bck

I've recently discovered a strong liking for Victorian era poems, so I checked out Poetry of the Victorian Period (collected by George Benjamin Woods) from the library. ^__^ It has a lot of loli-inspiring poems in it, so I typed up a few.

Sorry 'bout having to add the little ellipsis (ellipsises? "XD), but I'm way too lazy to type out the whole poems. @.@ but I'm sure if you Google some of the titles the whole poem will come up ^u^b


In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thrown encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
Now lie dead . . .


I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird . . .

- Algernon Charles Swinburne


There was a lady lived in a hall,
Large of eyes and slim and tall;
And ever she sung from noon to noon,
Two red roses across the moon.

There was a knight came riding by
In early spring, when the roads were dry;
And he heard that lady sing at the noon
Two red roses across the moon.

Yet none the more he stopped at all,
But he rode a-gallop past the hall;
And left that lady singing at noon,
Two red roses across the moon . . .


My lady seems of ivory
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be
Hollowed a little mournfully.
Beata mea Domina!* . . .

. . . Beneath her brows the lids fall slow,
The lashes a clear shadow throw
Where I wish my lips to be.
Beata mea Domina!

DHer great eyes, standing far apart,
Draw up some memory from her heart,
And gaze out very mournfully
-- Beata mea Domina! --

So beautiful and kind they are
But most times looking out afar,
Waiting for something, not for me.
Beata mea Domina!

I wonder if the lashes long
Are those that do her bright eyes wrong,
For always half tears seem to be
-- Beata mea Domina! -- . . .

* my blessed Lady

- William Morris


Not I myself know all my love for thee;
How should I reach so far, who cannot weigh
Tomorrow's dower by gage of yesterday?
Shall birth and death, and all dark names that be
As doors and windows bared to some loud sea,
Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray;
And shall my sense pierce love -- the last relay
And ultimate outpost of eternity?
Lo! what am I to Love, the Lord of all?
One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,
One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand.
Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call
And veriest touch of powers primordial
That any hour-girt life may understand


There came an image in Life's retinue
That had Love's wings and bore his gonfalon;
Fair was the web, and nobly wrought thereon,
O soul-sequestered face, thy form and hue!
Bewildering sounds, such as spring wakens to,
Shook in its folds, and through my heart its power
Sped trackless as the immemorable hour
When birth's dark portal groaned and all was new
But a veiled woman followed, and she caught
The banner round its staff, to furl and cling --
Then plucked a feather from the bearer's wing,
And held it to his lips that stirred it not,
And said to me, "Behold, there is no breath;
I and this Love are one, and I am Death."


Ah! dear one, we were young so long,
It seemed that youth would never go,
For skies and trees were ever in song
And waters in singing flow
In the days we never again shall know.
Alas, so long!
Ah! then was it all spring weather?
Nay, but we were young and together . . .

. . . Ah! dear one, you've been dead so long --
How long until we meet again,
Where hours may never lose their song
Nor flowers forget the rain
In glad noonlight that never shall wane?
Alas, so long!
Ah! shall it be then spring weather,
And ah! shall we be young together?

Too Late for Love

Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate.
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait . . .

. . . Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there;
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care? . . .

. . . You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed;
But wherefore should you weep today
That she is dead?
Lo we who weep not today,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red;
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.

- Christina Rossetti


The night's held breath,
And the stars' steady eyes:
Is it sleep, is it death,
In the earth, in the skies?

In my heart of hope,
In my restless will,
There is that should not stop,
Though the earth stood still,
Though the heavens shook aghast,
As the frost shakes a tree,
And a strong wind cast
The stars in the sea.

- Arthur Symons
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic