#EnglishWriters
Above the town a monstrous wheel i… With glowing spokes of red, Low in the west its fiery axle bur… And, lost amid the spaces overhead… A vague white moth, the moon, is f…
In an old book I found her face Writ by a dead man long ago– I found, and then I lost the plac… So nothing but her face I know, And her soft name writ fair below.
Morn hath a secret that she never… ’Tis on her lips and in her maiden… I think it is the way to Paradise… Or of the Fount of Youth the crys… The bee hath no such honey in her…
I dwell, with all things great and… The green earth and the lustral ai… The sacred spaces of the sea, Day in, day out, companion me. Pure-faced, pure-thoughted, folk a…
Waiting in the woodland, watching… Thinking every leaf that stirs the… Thinking every whisper the rustle… How my heart goes up and up, and t… First it is a squirrel, then it is…
You often ask me, love, how much… Bidding my fancy find An answer to your mind; I say: ‘Past count, as there are… You shake your head and say,
O little Heart, So much I see Thy hidden smart, So much I long To sing some song
_To Two Friends married in the N… (TO. MR. AND MRS. WELCH) Another year to its last day, Like a lost sovereign, runaway, Tips down the gloomy grid of time:
From tavern to tavern Youth passes along, With an armful of girl And a heart full of song. From flower to flower
This is the year that has no Chri… Even the little children must be t… That something sad is happening fa… Or, if you needs must play, As children must,
Doth it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thou art, To feel how I press thy singing Close to my heart?- Take it at night to my pillow,
When the embalmer closed my eyes, And all the family went in black, And shipped me off to Paradise, I had no thought of coming back; I dreamed of undisturbed repose
When all the world has gone awry, And I myself least favour find With my own self, and but to die And leave the whole sad coil behin… Seems but the one and only way;
O loveliest face, on which we look… Not without hope we may again beho… Somewhere, somehow, when we oursel… Where, Lucy, you have gone, this… That gathered beauty every changin…
And is it true indeed, and must yo… Set out alone across that moorland… No love avail, though we have love… No voice have any power to call yo… And losing hands stretch after you…