#EnglishWriters
Turn from that road’s beguiling ea… to your hunger’s turret. Enter, cl… chill with disuse, where the croak… regards from shimmering eyes your… and the drip, drip, of darkness gl…
A doll’s hair concealing an eggshell skull delicately throbbing, within which maggots in voluptuous unrest jostle and shrug. Oh, Eileen, my
To lie back under the tallest oldest trees. How far the stems rise, rise before ribs of shelter open!
Though the road turn at last to death’s ordinary door, and we knock there, ready to enter and it opens easily for us,
The red eyes of rabbits aren’t sad. No one passes the sad golden village in a barge any more. The sunset will leave it alone. If the
This is the year the old ones, the old great ones leave us alone on the road. The road leads to the sea. We have the words in our pockets,
There’s in my mind a woman of innocence, unadorned but fair-featured and smelling of apples or grass. She wears a utopian smock or shift, her hair
The tree of knowledge was the tree… That’s why the taste of it drove us from Eden. That fruit was meant to be dried and milled t… for use a pinch at a time, a condi…
We live our lives of human passion… cruelties, dreams, concepts, crimes and the exercise of virtue in and beside a world devoid of our preoccupations, free
A voice from the dark called out, “The poets must give us imagination of peace, to oust the… imagination of disaster. Peace, no… the absence of war.”
“I am a landscape,” he said. “a landscape and a person walking… There are daunting cliffs there, And plains glad in their way of brown monotony. But especially
From the tawny light from the rainy nights from the imagination finding itself and more than itself alone and more than alone
In the Japanese tongue of the min…
Bricks of the wall, so much older than the house - taken I think from a farm pulled d… when the street was built - narrow bricks of another century.
The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer. The wind blowing, the leaves shivering in the sun,