#EnglishWriters
Grief hath pacified her face; Even hope might share so still a p… Yet, on the silence of her heart, Haply, if a strange footfall start… Or a chance word of ecstasy
Jagg’d mountain peaks and skies ic… Wall in the wild, cold scene below… Churches, farms, bare copse, the s… In freezing quiet of winter show; Where ink-black shapes on fields i…
All but blind In his chambered hole, Gropes for worms The four-clawed mole. All but blind
Hi! Handsome hunting man, Fire your little gun, Bang! Now that animal Is dead and dumb and done. Never more to peep again, creep ag…
Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, ‘Mid the verdurous vales and thick… Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple
Ever, ever Stir and shiver The reeds and rushes By the river: Ever, ever,
Said Mr. Smith, 'I really cann… Tell you, Dr. Jones’ The most peculiar pain I’m in’… I think it’s in my bones.' Said Dr. Jones, 'Oh, Mr. Smit…
There is a wind where the rose was… Cold rain where sweet grass was, And clouds like sheep Stream o’er the steep Grey skies where the lark was.
That one, alone, Who’s dared and gone To seek the Magic Wonderstone, No fear, or care, Or black despair
Now, through the dusk With muffled bell The Dustman comes The World to tell, Night’s elfin lanterns
In sea-cold Lyonesse, When the Sabbath eve shafts down On the roofs, walls, belfries Of the foundered town, The Nereids pluck their lyres
The seeds I sowed – For week unseen – Have pushed up pygmy Shoots of green; So frail you’d think
Isled in the midnight air, Musked with the dark’s faint bloom… Out into glooming and secret haunt… The flame cries, ‘Come!’ Lovely in dye and fan,
When the last colours of the day Have from their burning ebbed away… About that ruin, cold and lone, The cricket shrills from stone to… And scattering o’er its darkened g…
Suppose... and suppose that a wild… Came cantering out of the sky, With bridle of silver, and into th… To fly—and to fly; And we stretched up into the air,…