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#victorian poetry
themakeupbrush · 1 year
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The Atelier Couture “Victorian Poetry”
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hairtusk · 1 year
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Clasped Hands of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, by Harriet Hosmer (1853)
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bilibliophl · 1 month
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Bryant's Poems, a mixed bag with a sample page and illustrations from various sources, illustrators (and editions I guess).
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Pre-Raphaelite Dove Advent Calendar 10
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Book Plate from Selected Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1907, illustrated by Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale
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Victorian Valentines
Every year John Barrow jr received Valentines from his young friend Gilly, an orphan. However the relationship does not seem to have been romantic. She continued to visit him until he died in 1898.
Unchanging Love
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Though absence parts us for a while,
And distance rolls between,
Believe, whoever may revile,
I am still what I have been.
For to my dying day, my heart,
Through every fate will be,
If doom'd till then to mourn apart,
Unchanging still to thee
"I do believe in this", Barrow wrote.
True Affection
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Emblem fair to you I send,
Token of affection true,
Showing where my feelings tend,
Like the magnet unto you
Worlds may pass away and perish,
Every feeling die away,
But the constant love I cherish,
Never, never shall decay
Barrow noted: "No variations of the magnet, I trust?"
[Photos by me of private journals of John Barrow, Weston Library, University of Oxford]
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bornanoldsoul · 3 months
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from the thesis i wrote for my bachelor's degree in languages and literature 🤍 it is titled "Femmes Fatales as Mythological Creatures in Romantic and Victorian Poetry". in it, i delve into the figure of the femme fatale, or fatal woman, as various mythological creatures, analysing selected poems by John Keats (my beloved), Percy Shelley and Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
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detroitlib · 1 year
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C. D. Shanly. "The Walker of the Snow." In Stedman's Victorian Anthology.
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grenadaee · 1 year
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We as human beings are fickle-minded creatures and have had many dreams and ambitions growing up. We all have been subjected to similar circumstances when one day we wanted to be a doctor and the next, a singer. But one can only know what is meant for them when even within those ever-changing interests, something stays consistent.
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Lets all strive to find that consistency and chase them.
- grenadae
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July, from The Procession of Months (c.1889). All the poems were written by fifteen-year-old Beatrice Crane and illustrated by her acclaimed artist father, Walter Crane.
info via publicdomainreview.org
art via pinterest
text id under cut-off
[text ID: "By the reedy riverside
Where swans do take their rest,
July, with languid steps,
Comes forth so richly drest.
For all the sumer tints
Are woven in her dress;
A girdle spun with gold
Her dainty waist doth press.
Her hair, of auburn gold,
Is braided up with flowers,
Her eyes so clear and blue
Do speak of happy house.
She brings with her tall lilies,
Both orange & pure white;
And many other flowers
To give our hearts delight.
But while the water lilies
Are opening bright & fair,
She slowly, softly goes
In the still summer air"]
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skelecha1rs · 4 months
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A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,
And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
- Lord Alfred Tennyson, The Lady of Shallot part iv (1833)
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blackhyena · 10 months
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Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 'In Memoriam, A. H. H.
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themakeupbrush · 1 year
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The Atelier Couture “Victorian Poetry”
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florareadsworld · 1 year
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Emily Dickinson.
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rory-bor-e-alis · 7 months
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It’s giving the Lady of Shalott
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Pre-Raphaelite Dove Advent Calendar 13
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And the Dove, Maybe, Return to Nestle Here by Christina Rossetti, illustration by Florence Harrison
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rivenantiqnerd · 2 months
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Half formed words fly round my head,
Lending me no peace in bed
Marching in their metered rows
Rhyming schemes like awkward bows
Why torment me, foul rhyming
Meter, too, when sleep I’m pining?
All thoughts blocked by recent reading
All my dreams it down is beating
Words of poets dead, like Poe
Making my conscience bow low
I’d never be as great as them
Their choice of words, a priceless gem.
Verses mocking, without care
Living with distinguished air
Occupying thought and hour
Ent’ring the mind while in the shower
Why is reading poetry messing up my brain like this?
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