#EnglishWriters
Day after day, At spring’s return, I watch my flowers, how they burn Their lives away. The candle crocus
White in the moonlight, Wet with dew, We have known the languor Of being two. We have been weary
We who are lovers sit by the fire, Cradled warm 'twixt thought and wi… Sit and drowse like sleeping dogs In the equipoise of all desire, Sit and listen to the still
A million million spermatozoa All of them alive; Out of their cataclysm but one poo… Dare hope to survive. And among that billion minus one
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…
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…
Once more the windless days are he… Quiet of autumn, when the year Halts and looks backward and draws… Before it plunges into death. Silver of mist and gossamers,
I had remarked—how sharply one obs… When life is disappearing round th… Of yet another corner, out of sigh… I had remarked when it was “good l… And “a good journey to you,” on he…
Fine as the dust of plumy fountain… Across the lanterns of a revelling… The tiny leaves of April’s earlie… Powder the trees—so vaporously lig… They seem to float, billows of eme…
All fly—yet who is misanthrope?— The actual men and things that pas… Jostling, to wither as the grass So soon: and (be it heaven’s hope, Or poetry’s kaleidoscope,
In the middle of countries, far fr… Are the little places one passes b… And never stops at; where the skie… Uninterrupted, and the level plain… Stretch green and yellow and green…
My close-walled soul has never kno… That innermost darkness, dazzling… Like the blind point, whence the v… In the core of the gazer’s chrysol… The mystic darkness that laps God…
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 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,
I have run where festival was loud With drum and brass among the crow… Of panic revellers, whose cries Affront the quiet of the skies; Whose dancing lights contract the…