Dante Gabriel Rossetti
To The P.R.B.
Woolner and Stephens, Collinson, Millais,
And my first brother, each and every one,
What portion is theirs now beneath the sun
Which, even as here, in England makes to-day?
For most of them life runs not the same way
Always, but leaves the thought at loss: I know
Merely that Woolner keeps not even the show
Of work, nor is enough awake for play.
Meanwhile Hunt and myself race at full speed
Along the Louvre, and yawn from school to school,
Wishing worn-out those masters known as old.
And no man asks of Browning; though indeed
(As the book travels with me) any fool
Who would might hear Sordello's story told.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (To The P.R.B. by Dante Gabriel Rossetti )
- Within My Mind Holds Dreams, Lilly Emery
- The Right Question, David Barz
- Confusing, george albot
- Bluegray, Saiom Shriver
- My Still Daughter, LoKis White
- By Another Icarus, Robert Rorabeck
- Lilies Of Lanka, Saiom Shriver
- Fiery Ferment, Saiom Shriver
- ZZ Cowkilling Cowboys Want To Murder Wil.., Saiom Shriver
- The ones we Love, Leroy Numa
Poem of the Day
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)