Dolcino To Margaret

The world goes up and the world goes down,
    And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
    Can never come over again,
    Sweet wife:
    No, never come over again.

For woman is warm though man be cold,
    And the night will hallow the day;
Till the heart which at even was weary and old
    Can rise in the morning gay,
    Sweet wife;
    To its work in the morning gay.

Andernach, 1851.

Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley was an English writer, historian, and clergyman born on June 12, 1819, in Holne, Devon. He was associated with the Christian Socialist movement and was a friend of prominent figures such as Charles Darwin. Kingsley is best known for his historical novels, including 'Westward Ho!' and 'Hypatia,' as well as his children's book 'The Water-Babies.' His works often explore social issues and aim to contribute to societal reform. Kingsley died on January 23, 1875, in Eversley, Hampshire.

Charles Kingsley

The Swan-Neck

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

A Lament

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

The Outlaw

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

A Thought From The Rhine

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

English

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Margaret To Dolcino

Ask if I love thee?    Oh, smiles cannot tell
Plainer what tears are now showing too well.
Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear:
Had I not loved thee, I had not been here,
    Weeping by thee.

Ask if I love thee?    How else could I borrow
Pride from man's slander, and strength from my sorrow?
Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic's bride,
Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide
    Weeping by thee.

Andernach on the Rhine,
August 1851.

Charles Kingsley

To Mrs. .......

To see thee every day that came,
And find thee still each day the same;
In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear
To me still ever kind and dear;--
To meet thee early, leave thee late,
Has been so long my bliss, my fate,
That life, without this cheering ray,
Which came, like sunshine, every day,
And all my pain, my sorrow chased,
Is now a lone, a loveless waste.

Where are the chords she used to touch?
The airs, the songs she loved so much?
Those songs are hushed, those chords are still,
And so, perhaps, will every thrill
Of feeling soon be lulled to rest,
Which late I waked in Anna's breast.
Yet, no--the simple notes I played
From memory's tablet soon may fade;
The songs, which Anna loved to hear,
May vanish from her heart and ear;
But fri...

Thomas Moore

Little Sunshine.

Winsome, wee and witty,
Like a little fay,
Carolling her ditty
All the livelong day,
Saucy as a sparrow
In the summer glade,
Flitting o'er the meadow
Came the little maid.
A youth big and burly,
Loitered near the stile,
He had risen early,
Just to win her smile.
And she came towards him
Trying to look grave,
But she couldn't do it,
Not her life to save.
For the fun within her,
Well'd out from her eyes,
And the tell-tale blushes
To her brow would rise.
Then he gave her greeting,
And with bashful bow,
Said in tones entreating,
"Darling tell me now,
You are all the sunshine,
This world holds for me;
Be my little valentine,
I have come for thee."
But she only tittered
When he told his love,
And ...

John Hartley

The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Dedication

In trellised shed with clustering roses gay,
And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire,
When yeas of wedded life were as a day
Whose current answers to the heart's desire,
Did we together read in Spenser's Lay
How Una, sad of soul, in sad attire,
The gentle Una, of celestial birth,
To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth.

Ah, then, Beloved! pleasing was the smart,
And the tear precious in compassion shed
For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart,
Did meekly bear the pang unmerited;
Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart
The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,,
And faithful, loyal in her innocence,
Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.

Notes could we hear as of a faery shell
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;

William Wordsworth

Margaret

I.
O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret,
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy sweet and frail
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?
From the westward-winding flood,
From the evening-lighted wood,
From all things outward you have won
A tearful grace, as tho you stood
Between the rainbow and the sun.
The very smile before you speak,
That dimples your transparent cheek,
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth
The senses with a still delight
Of dainty sorrow without sound,
Like the tender amber round,
Which the moon about her spreadeth,
Moving thro a fleecy night.

II.
You love, remaining peacefull...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Dame Of Athelhall

I

"Soul! Shall I see thy face," she said,
"In one brief hour?
And away with thee from a loveless bed
To a far-off sun, to a vine-wrapt bower,
And be thine own unseparated,
And challenge the world's white glower?

II

She quickened her feet, and met him where
They had predesigned:
And they clasped, and mounted, and cleft the air
Upon whirling wheels; till the will to bind
Her life with his made the moments there
Efface the years behind.

III

Miles slid, and the sight of the port upgrew
As they sped on;
When slipping its bond the bracelet flew
From her fondled arm. Replaced anon,
Its cameo of the abjured one drew
Her musings thereupon.

IV

The gaud with his image once had been
A gift from h...

Thomas Hardy