#EnglishWriters
the quiet skies: And from the west, Where the sun, his day’s work ende… Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city
Once on a time There was a little boy: a master-m… By virtue of a Book Of magic—O, so magical it filled His life with visionary pomps
Life is bitter. All the faces o… Young and old, are gray with trava… Must we only wake to toil, to tire… In the sun, among the leaves, upon… Slumber stills to dreamy death the…
Gulls in an aery morrice Gleam and vanish and gleam . . . The full sea, sleepily basking, Dreams under skies of dream. Gulls in an aery morrice
With a ripple of leaves and a tink… The full world rolls in a rhythm o… And the winds are one with the clo… Midsummer days! Midsummer days! The dusk grows vast; in a purple h…
Bring her again, O western wind, Over the western sea! Gentle and good and fair and kind, Bring her again to me! Not that her fancy holds me dear,
Spring at her height on a morn at… Sails that laugh from a flying squ… Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme… Youth is the sign of them, one and… Winter sunsets and leaves that fal…
A child, Curious and innocent, Slips from his Nurse, and rejoici… Loses himself in the Fair. Thro’ the jostle and din
When you are old, and I am passed… Passed, and your face, your golden… I think, whate’er the end, this dr… Comforting you, a friendly star wi… Down the dim slope where you still…
Carry me out Into the wind and the sunshine, Into the beautiful world. O, the wonder, the spell of the st… The stature and strength of the ho…
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pol… I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance
From the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her passionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail,
Here they trysted, here they stray… In the leafage dewy and boon, Many a man and many a maid, And the morn was merry June. ‘Death is fleet, Life is sweet,’
Here in this dim, dull, double-bed… I play the father to a brace of bo… Ailing but apt for every sort of n… Bedfast but brilliant yet with hea… Roden, the Irishman, is ‘sieven p…
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Pools that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill;