#EnglishWriters
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,’
Crosses and troubles a-many have p… One or two women (God bless them)… I have worked and dreamed, and I’… Of art and drink I have had my fi… I’ve comforted here, and I succor…
Some three, or five, or seven, and… A Roman nose; a dimpling double-c… Dark eyes and shy that, ignorant o… Are yet acquainted, it would seem,… A comely shape; a slim, high-colou…
Life in her creaking shoes Goes, and more formal grows, A round of calls and cues: Love blows as the wind blows. Blows! . . . in the quiet close
There’s never a delicate nurseling… But our huge London hails it, and… To wear it on her breast or at her… Her days to colour and make sweet… Crocus and daffodil and violet,
Fools may pine, and sots may swill… Cynics gibe, and prophets rail, Moralists may scourge and drill, Preachers prose, and fainthearts q… Let them whine, or threat, or wail…
Some starlit garden grey with dew, Some chamber flushed with wine and… What matters where, so I and you Are worthy our desire? Behind, a past that scolds and jee…
A hard north-easter fifty winters… Has bronzed and shrivelled sere he… Her locks are wild and grey, her t… Her foot is vast, her bowed leg sp… A wide blue cloak, a squat and stu…
Beside the idle summer sea, And in the vacant summer days, Light Love came fluting down the… Where you were loitering with me. Who have not welcomed even as we,
The morning mists still haunt the… The northern summer air is shrill… And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet… Where Life and Death like friendl… Thro’ the loud spaciousness and dr…
Where forlorn sunsets flare and fa… On desolate sea and lonely sand, Out of the silence and the shade What is the voice of strange comma… Calling you still, as friend calls…
SONS of Shannon, Tamar, Trent, Men of the Lothians, Men of Kent… Essex, Wessex, shore and shire, Mates of the net, the mine, the fi… Lads of the wheel and desk and loo…
The big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain.
Take, dear, my little sheaf of son… For, old or new, All that is good in them belongs Only to you; And, singing as when all was young…
Out of the poisonous East, Over a continent of blight, Like a maleficent Influence relea… From the most squalid cellerage of… The Wind-Fiend, the abominable—