#EnglishWriters
The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn, And up from India glances The silver sail of dawn. The candles burn their sockets,
“Terence, this is stupid stuff! You eat your victuals fast enough; There can’t be much amiss, ‘tis cl… To see the rate you drink your bee… But oh, good Lord, the verse you…
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough… And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and te…
White in the moon the long road li… The moon stands blank above; White in the moon the long road li… That leads me from my love. Still hangs the hedge without a gu…
Wake: the silver dusk returning Up the beach of darkness brims, And the ship of sunrise burning Strands upon the eastern rims. Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
CHORUS: O suitably-attired-in-… Head of a traveller, wherefore see… Whence by what way how purposed ar… To this well-nightingaled vicinity… My object in inquiring is to know.
“Is my team ploughing, That I was used to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?” Ay, the horses trample,
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,
The Wain upon the northern steep Descends and lifts away. Oh I will sit me down and weep For bones in Africa. For pay and medals, name and rank,
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
There pass the careless people That call their souls their own: Here by the road I loiter, How idle and alone. Ah, past the plunge of plummet,
“Far I hear the bugle blow To call me where I would not go, And the guns begin the song, ‘Soldier, fly or stay for long.’ ”Comrade, if to turn and fly
When smoke stood up from Ludlow, And mist blew off from Teme, And blithe afield to ploughing Against the morning beam I strode beside my team,
When the eye of day is shut, And the stars deny their beams, And about the forest hut Blows the roaring wood of dreams, From deep clay, from desert rock,
I hoed and trenched and weeded, And took the flowers to fair: I brought them home unheeded; The hue was not the wear. So up and down I sow them