#EnglishWriters
Anthropos apteros for days Walked whistling round and round t… Relying happily upon His temperment for getting on. The hundredth time he sighted, tho…
For what as easy For what thought small, For what is well Because between, To you simply
The underground roads Are, as the dead prefer them, Always tortuous. . . . When he looked the cave in the eye…
“O where are you going?” said read… “That valley is fatal where furnac… Yonder’s the midden whose odours w… That gap is the grave where the ta… “O do you imagine,” said fearer to…
Underneath an abject willow, Lover, sulk no more: Act from thought should quickly fo… What is thinking for? Your unique and moping station
He told us we were free to choose But, children as we were, we thoug… “Paternal Love will only use Force in the last resort On those too bumptious to repent.”
Time can say nothing but I told y… Time only knows the price we have… If I could tell you, I would let… If we should weep when clowns put… If we should stumble when musician…
Taller to-day, we remember similar… Walking together in a windless orc… Where the brook runs over the grav… Nights come bringing the snow, and… Under headlands in their windy dwe…
Chaucer, Langland, Douglas, Dunb… brother Anons, how on earth did yo… without anaesthetics or plumbing, in daily peril from witches, warlo… lepers, The Holy Office, foreign…
As the hawk sees it or the helmete… The clouds rift suddenly - look th… At cigarette-end smouldering on a… At the first garden party of the y… Pass on, admire the view of the ma…
As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river
Perfection, of a kind, was what he… And the poetry he invented was eas… He knew human folly like the back… And was greatly interested in armi… When he laughed, respectable senat…
Nobody I know would like to be bu… with a silver cocktail-shaker, a transistor radio and a strangled daily help, or keep his word becau… of a great-great-grandmother who g…
Eyes look into the well, Tears run down from the eye; The tower cracked and fell From the quiet winter sky. Under a midnight stone
Seated after breakfast In this white-tiled cabin Arabs call the House where Everybody goes, Even melancholics