#EnglishWriters
The profoundest of all sensualitie… is the sense of truth and the next deepest sensual exper… is the sense of justice.
Oh the green glimmer of apples in… Lamps in a wash of rain! Oh the wet walk of my brown hen th… Oh tears on the window pane! Nothing now will ripen the bright…
I wonder, can the night go by; Can this shot arrow of travel fly Shaft—golden with light, sheer int… Of a dawned to—morrow, Without ever sleep delivering us
When the autumn roses Are heavy with dew, Before the mist discloses The leaf’s brown hue, You would, among the laughing hill…
Butterfly, the wind blows sea—ward… strong beyond the garden—wall! Butterfly, why do you settle on my shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe, Lifting your veined wings, lifting…
My love looks like a girl to—night… But she is old. The plaits that lie along her pill… Are not gold, But threaded with filigree silver,
The dawn was apple-green, The sky was green wine held up in… The moon was a golden petal betwee… She opened her eyes, and green They shone, clear like flowers und…
The new red houses spring like pla… In level rows Of reddish herbage that bristles a… Its square shadows. The pink young houses show one sid…
This spring as it comes bursts up… Wild puffing of emerald trees, and… Thorn—blossom lifting in wreaths o… Where the wood fumes up and the wa… I am amazed at this spring, this c…
Her tawny eyes are onyx of thought… Hardened they are like gems in anc… Yea, and her mouth’s prudent and c… Means even less than her many word… Though her kiss betrays me also th…
She is large and matronly And rather dirty, A little sardonic—looking, as if d… Though what she does, except lay f… And put up with her husband,
THE houses fade in a melt of mist Blotching the thick, soiled air With reddish places that still res… The Night’s slow care. The hopeless, wintry twilight fade…
They say the sea is cold, but the… the hottest blood of all, and the… All the whales in the wider deeps,… on and on, and dive beneath the ic… The right whales, the sperm—whales…
Too far away, oh love, I know, To save me from this haunted road, Whose lofty roses break and blow On a night—sky bent with a load Of lights: each solitary rose,
Thought, I love thought. But not the juggling and twisting… I despise that self—important game… Thought is the welling up of unkno… Thought is the testing of statemen…