#EnglishWriters
Walking around in the park Should feel better than work: The lake, the sunshine, The grass to lie on, Blurred playground noises
If hands could free you, heart, Where would you fly? Far, beyond every part Of earth this running sky Makes desolate? Would you cross
Marrying left yor maiden name disu… Its five light sounds no longer me… Your voice, and all your variants… For since you were so thankfully c… By law with someone else, you cann…
Beyond all this, the wish to be al… However the sky grows dark with in… However we follow the printed dire… However the family is photographed… Beyond all this, the wish to be al…
Love, we must part now: do not let… Calamitious and bitter. In the pa… There has been too much moonlight… Let us have done with it: for now… Never has sun more boldly paced th…
I saw three ships go sailing by, Over the sea, the lifting sea, And the wind rose in the morning s… And one was rigged for a long jour… The first ship turned towards the…
Once I believed in you, And then you came, Unquestionably new, as fame Had said you were. But that was l… You launched no argument,
They fuck you up, your mum and dad… They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they… And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their t…
When I see a couple of kids And guess he’s fucking her and she… Taking pills or wearing a diaphrag… I know this is paradise Everyone old has dreamed of all th…
New eyes each year Find old books here, And new books, too, Old eyes renew; So youth and age
Talking in bed ought to be easiest… Lying together there goes back so… An emblem of two people being hone… Yet more and more time passes sile… Outside the wind’s incomplete unre…
Like the train’s beat Swift language flutters the lips Of the Polish airgirl in the corn… The swinging and narrowing sun Lights her eyelashes, shapes
Love again: wanking at ten past th… (Surely he’s taken her home by now… The bedroom hot as a bakery, The drink gone dead, without showi… To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
For nations vague as weed, For nomads among stones, Small—statured cross—faced tribes And cobble—close families In mill—towns on dark mornings
My readers... sometimes I wonder whether they really exist. Truly they arer remarkably tolerant, manifesting themselves only by the occasional query as to where they can buy records: ju...