#EnglishWriters
Westward on the high-hilled plains Where for me the world began, Still, I think, in newer veins Frets the changeless blood of man. Now that other lads than I
Her strong enchantments failing, Her towers of fear in wreck, Her limbecks dried of poisons And the knife at her neck, The Queen of air and darkness
Soldier from the wars returning, Spoiler of the taken town, Here is ease that asks not earning… Turn you in and sit you down. Peace is come and wars are over,
Oh, see how thick the goldcup flow… Are lying in field and lane, With dandelions to tell the hours That never are told again. Oh may I squire you round the mea…
The rainy Pleiads wester, Orion plunges prone, The stroke of midnight ceases And I lie down alone. The rainy Pleiads wester,
Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hil… What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content,
Crossing alone the nighted ferry With the one coin for fee, Whom, on the wharf of Lethe waiti… Count you to find? Not me. The brisk fond lackey to fetch and…
This time of year a twelvemonth pa… When Fred and I would meet, We needs must jangle, till at last We fought and I was beat. So then the summer fields about,
“Farewell to barn and stack and tr… Farewell to Severn shore. Terence, look your last at me, For I come home no more. ”The sun burns on the half-mown hi…
On the idle hill of summer, Sleepy with the flow of streams, Far I hear the steady drummer Drumming like a noise in dreams. Far and near and low and louder
Now hollow fires burn out to black… And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your p… And leave your friends and go. Oh never fear, man, nought’s to dr…
“Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun, Are the quietest places Under the sun.” In valleys of springs and rivers,
“Is my team ploughing, That I was used to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?” Ay, the horses trample,
With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipt maiden And many a lightfoot lad. By brooks too broad for leaping
When I watch the living meet And the moving pageant file Warm and breathing through the str… Where I lodge a little while, If the heats of hate and lust