#EnglishWriters
Continuing to live—that is, repeat A habit formed to get necessaries— Is nearly always losing, or going… It varies. This loss of interest, hair, and e…
This empty street, this sky to bla… This air, a little indistinct with… Like a reflection, constitute the… A time traditionally soured, A time unrecommended by event.
Since we agreed to let the road be… Fall to disuse, And bricked our gates up, planted… And turned all time’s eroding agen… Silence, and space, and strangers…
Down stucco sidestreets, Where light is pewter And afternoon mist Brings lights on in shops Above race—guides and rosaries,
Cut grass lies frail: Brief is the breath Mown stalks exhale. Long, long the death It dies in the white hours
About twenty years ago Two girls came in where I worked— A bosomy English rose And her friend in specs I could t… Faces in those days sparked
Choice of you shuts up that peacoc… The future was, in which temptingl… All that elaborative nature can. Matchless potential! but unlimited Only so long as I elected nothing…
Slowly the women file to where he… Upright in rimless glasses, silver… Dark suit, white collar. Stewards… Persuade them onwards to his voice… Within whose warm spring rain of l…
If I were called in To construct a religion I should make use of water. Going to church Would entail a fording
On shallow straw, in shadeless gla… Huddled by empty bowls, they sleep… No dark, no dam, no earth, no gras… Mam, get us one of them to keep. Living toys are something novel,
After comparing lives with you for… I see how I’ve been losing: all t… I’ve met a different gauge of girl… Grant that, and all the rest makes… My mortification at your pushovers…
My age fallen away like white swad… Floats in the middle distance, bec… An inhabited cloud. I bend closer… A lighted tenement scuttling with… O you tall game I tired myself wi…
Is it for now or for always, The world hangs on a stalk? Is it a trick or a trysting—place, The woods we have found to walk? Is it a mirage or miracle,
To put one brick upon another, Add a third and then a forth, Leaves no time to wonder whether What you do has any worth. But to sit with bricks around you
There is an evening coming in Across the fields, one never seen… That lights no lamps. Silken it seems at a distance, yet When it is drawn up over the knees…
