#EnglishWriters
Our earth in 1969 Is not the planet I call mine, The world, I mean, that gives me… To hold off chaos at arm’s length. My Eden landscapes and their clim…
Again in conversations Speaking of fear And throwing off reserve The voice is nearer But no clearer
We, too, had known golden hours When body and soul were in tune, Had danced with our true loves By the light of a full moon, And sat with the wise and good
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…
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…
This lunar beauty Has no history Is complete and early, If beauty later Bear any feature
My dear one is mine as mirrors are… As the poor and sad are real to th… And the high green hill sits alway… Up jumped the Black Man behind th… Turned a somersault and ran away w…
Now through night’s caressing grip Earth and all her oceans slip, Capes of China slide away From her fingers into day And th’Americas incline
And the age ended, and the last de… In bed, grown idle and unhappy; th… The sudden shadow of the giant’s e… Would fall no more at dusk across… They slept in peace: in marshes he…
Unbiased at least he was when he a… Having never set eyes on the land… Between two peoples fanatically at… With their different diets and inc… “Time,” they had briefed him in L…
Some thirty inches from my nose The frontier of my Person goes, And all the untilled air between Is private pagus or demesne. Stranger, unless with bedroom eyes
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
As the poets have mournfully sung, Death takes the innocent young, The rolling-in-money, The screamingly-funny, And those who are very well hung.
Not as that dream Napoleon, rumou… Before who’s riding all the crowds… Who dedicates a column and withdra… Nor as that general favourite and… To whom the weather and the ruins…
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end, the delicious story is ripe to tel… to tell to the intimate friend; over the tea-cups and into the squ…