#EnglishWriters
Coming up England by a different… For once, early in the cold new ye… We stopped, and, watching men with… Sprint down the platform to famili… ‘Why, Coventry!’ I exclaimed. ‘I…
Lonely in Ireland, since it was n… Strangeness made sense. The salt… Insisting so on difference, made m… Once that was recognised, we were… Their draughty streets, end—on to…
In frames as large as rooms that f… And block the ends of streets with… Screen graves with custard, cover… Of motor—oil and cuts of salmon, s… Perpetually these sharply—pictured…
Delay, well, travellers must expec… Delay. For how long? No one seems… With all the luggage weighed, the… It can’t be long... We amble too… Sit in steel chairs, buy cigarette…
To step over the low wall that div… Road from concrete walk above the… Brings sharply back something know… The miniature gaiety of seasides. Everything crowds under the low ho…
Side by side, their faces blurred, The earl and countess lie in stone… Their proper habits vaguely shown As jointed armour, stiffened pleat… And that faint hint of the absurd—
Lambs that learn to walk in snow When their bleating clouds the air Meet a vast unwelcome, know Nothing but a sunless glare. Newly stumbling to and fro
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…
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…
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…
She kept her songs, they kept so l… The covers pleased her: One bleached from lying in a sunny… One marked in circles by a vase of… One mended, when a tidy fit had se…
Tightly-folded bud, I have wished you something None of the others would: Not the usual stuff About being beautiful,
Cut grass lies frail: Brief is the breath Mown stalks exhale. Long, long the death It dies in the white hours
My mother, who hates thunder storm… Holds up each summer day and shake… It out suspiciously, lest swarms Of grape—dark clouds are lurking t… But when the August weather break…
Thinking in terms of one Is easily done— One room, one bed, one chair, One person there, Makes perfect sense; one set