#EnglishWriters
So went our boys when Edward Sixt… Chartered Christ’s Hospital, and… Full fifteen generations in a stri… Of heirs to his bequest have had t… Thus Camden showed, and Barnes, a…
If I were king, my pipe should be… The skies of time and chance are s… We would inform them all with blan… Delight alone would need to shed a… For dream and deed should war no m…
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,
Far out of bounds he’d figured-in… Of West-End traffic pitching to h… But if you’d see him in his proper… Making the browns for bub and grub… Go East among the merchants and t…
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…
Not to the staring Day, For all the importunate questionin… In his big, violent voice, Shall those mild things of bulk an… The Trees—God’s sentinels
If it should come to be, This proof of you and me, This type and sign Of hours that smiled and shone, And yet seemed dead and gone
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…
Do you remember That afternoon—that Sunday aftern… When, as the kirks were ringing in… And the grey city teemed With Sabbath feelings and aspects…
WHAT have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere,
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
Easy is the Triolet, If you really learn to make it! Once a neat refrain you get, Easy is the Triolet. As you see! I pay my debt
She sauntered by the swinging seas… A jewel glittered at her ear, And, teasing her along, the breeze Brought many a rounded grace more… So passing, one with wave and beam…
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,’