#EnglishWriters
The stars are golden instants in t… Flawless expanse of night: the moo… The river sleeps, entranced, a smo… Seeming so motionless that I forg… The hollow booming bridges, where…
At your mouth, white and milk-warm… I taste a strange apocalypse: Your subtle taper finger-tips Weave me new heavens, yet, methink… I know the wiles and each iynx
Failing sometimes to understand Why there are folk whose flesh sho… Like carrion puffed with noisome s… Fly-blown to the eye that looks on… Fly-blown to the touch of a hand;
There is a country in my mind, Lovelier than a poet blind Could dream of, who had never know… This world of drought and dust and… In all its ugliness: a place
The eyes of the portraits on the w… Look at me, follow me, Stare incessantly: I take it their glance means nothi… —Clearly, oh clearly! Nothing at…
Many are the doors of the spirit t… Into the inmost shrine: And I count the gates of the temp… Since the god of the place is God… And these are the gates that God…
Darkness had stretched its colour, Deep blue across the pane: No cloud to make night duller, No moon with its tarnish stain; But only here and there a star,
Instants in the quiet, small sharp… Pierce my spirit with a thrust who… Baffles even the grasp of time. Oh that I might reflect them As swiftly, as keenly as they shin…
Noon with a depth of shadow beneat… Shakes in the heat, quivers to the… Half shaded, half sunlit, a great… Glistens purple and golden: the fl… Cool in their panniers of snow: si…
I am not one of those who sip, Like a quotidian bock, Cheap idylls from a languid lip Prepared to yawn or mock. I wait the indubitable word,
Books and a coloured skein of thou… And magic words lay ripening in my… Till their much-whispered music tu… Whose subtlest power was all in my… These things were mine, and they w…
We judge by appearance merely: If I can’t think strangely, I can… So I grew the hair so long on my… That my mother wouldn’t know me, Till a woman in a night-club said,
Oh wind-swept towers, Oh endlessly blossoming trees, White clouds and lucid eyes, And pools in the rocks whose unplu… With who knows what of subtlety
I had been sitting alone with book… Till doubt was a black disease, When I heard the cheerful shout o… In the bare, prophetic trees. Bare trees, prophetic of new birth…
Day after day, At spring’s return, I watch my flowers, how they burn Their lives away. The candle crocus
