#EnglishWriters
After you speak And what you meant Is plain, My eyes Meet yours that mean,
Some day, I think, there will be… In Froxfield to pick all the blac… Out of the hedges of Green Lane,… Broad lane where now September hi… In bracken and blackberry, harebel…
At hawthorn-time in Wiltshire tra… In search of something chance woul… An old man’s face, by life and wea… And coloured, - rough, brown, swee… A land face, sea-blue-eyed, - hung…
Gone, gone again, May, June, July, And August gone, Again gone by, Not memorable
Old Man, or Lads-Love, - in the… To one that knows not Lads-Love,… The hoar green feathery herb, almo… Growing with rosemary and lavender… Even to one that knows it well, th…
The sweetest thing, I thought At one time, between earth and hea… Was the first smile When mist has been forgiven And the sun has stolen out,
This ploughman dead in battle slep… Many a frozen night, and merrily Answered staid drinkers, good bedm… “At Mrs Greenland’s Hawthorn Bus… “I slept.” None knew which bush.…
She is most fair, And when they see her pass The poets’ ladies Look no more in the glass But after her.
IT was a perfect day For sowing; just As sweet and dry was the ground As tobacco-dust. I tasted deep the hour
THE long small room that showed w… Narrowed up to the end the firepla… Although not wide. I liked it. No… What need or accident made them so… Only the moon, the mouse, and the…
The glory of the beauty of the mor… The cuckoo crying over the untouch… The blackbird that has found it, a… That tempts me on to something swe… White clouds ranged even and fair…
What matter makes my spade for tea… Letting down two clay pipes into t… The one I smoked, the other a sol… Of Blenheim, Ramillies, and Malp… Perhaps. The dead man’s immortali…
It was upon a July evening. At a stile I stood, looking along… Over the country by a second Spri… Drenched perfect green again. ‘Th… Will be a fine one.’ So the stran…
The Combe was ever dark, ancient… Its mouth is stopped with brambles… And no one scrambles over the slid… By beech and yew and perishing jun… Down the half precipices of its si…
The green roads that end in the fo… Are strewn with white goose feathe… Life marks left behind by someone… To show his track. But he has nev… Down each green road a cottage loo…