#EnglishWriters
She bade us listen to the singing… In tones far sweeter than its own: For fear that she should cease and… We built the bird a feigned throne… Shrined in her gracious glory-givi…
O tender first cold flush of rose, O budded dawn, wake dreamily ; Your dim lips as your lids unclose Murmur your own sad threnody. 0 as the soft and frail lights bre…
I killed them, but they would not… Yea! all the day and all the night For them I could not rest or slee… Nor guard from them nor hide in fl… Then in my agony I turned
Grotesque and queerly huddled Contortionists to twist The sleepy soul to a sleep, We lie all sorts of ways And cannot sleep.
A silver rose to show Is your sweet face; And like the heavens’ white brow, Sometime God’s battle-place, Your blood is quiet now.
I mingle with your bones: You steal in subtle noose This lighted dust .Jehovah loans And now I lose. What will the Lender say
The free fair life that has never… If I were what you seem to be and… I know I walk upon the earth, but… My spirit and your spirit lies, yo… The angels that lie watching us, t…
Moses, from whose loins I sprung, Lit by a lamp in his blood Ten immutable rules, a moon For mutable lampless men. The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy,
As the pregnant womb of night Thrills with imprisoned light, Misty, nebulous-born, Growing deeper into her morn, So man, with no sudden stride,
Wreck not the ageing heart of quie… With alien uproar and rude jolly c… Which satyr like to a mild maidens… Ripens not wisdom, but a large rec… Give them their withered peace, th…
You are so light and gay, So slight, sweet maid– Your limbs like leaves in play, Or beams that grasses braid: O! Joys whose jewels pray
What in our lives is burnt In the fire of this? The heart’s dear granary? The much we shall miss? Three lives hath one life '
Fierce wrath of Solomon, Where sleepest thou? 0 see, The fabric which thou won Earth and ocean to give thee– 0 look at the red skies.
Your ‘ Youth ’ has fallen from it… And you have fallen, you yourself. They knocked a soldier on the head… I mourn the poet who fell dead. And yet I think it was by chance,
My Maker shunneth me: Even as a wretch stricken with lep… So hold I pestilent supremacy. Yea! He Instil fled far as the ut… Beyond the unperturbed fastnesses…