#English #XXCentury
‘Give us Rain, Rain,’ said the be… ‘Not so much Sun, Not so much Sun.’ But the Sun smiles bravely and en… And no rain falls and no waters ru…
‘Gabble—gabble . . . brethren . .… My window glimpses larch and heath… I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whethe… The text is praise or exhortation,
Cronos the Ruddy, steer your boat Toward Silver Island whence we si… Here you shall pass your days. Through a thick—growing alder—wood We clearly see, but are not seen,
Bears gash the forest trees To mark the bounds Of their own hunting grounds; They follow the wild bees Point by point home
The bards falter in shame, their r… Stumbles, with marrow—bones the dr… Pelt them for their delay. It is a something fearful in the s… Plagues them —an unknown grief tha…
As Jesus and his followers Upon a Sabbath morn Were walking by a wheat field They plucked the ears of corn. They plucked it, they rubbed it,
Where is the landlord of old Hawk… And what of Master Straddler this… He’s along in the tap—room with br… And ten bold companions all drinki… Where is the daughter of old Hawk…
Those famous men of old, the Ogre… They had long beards and stinking… They were wide-mouthed, long-yarde… Yet of no taller stature, Sirs, t… They lived on Ogre-Strand, which…
To you who’d read my songs of War And only hear of blood and fame, I’ll say (you’ve heard it said bef… “War’s Hell!” and if you doubt th… Today I found in Mametz Wood
When outside the icy rain Comes leaping helter—skelter, Shall I tie my restive brain Snugly under shelter? Shall I make a gentle song
Nine of the clock, oh! Wake my lazy head! Your shoes of red morocco, Your silk bed—gown: Rouse, rouse, speck—eyed Mary
Love is universal migraine, A bright stain on the vision Blotting out reason. Symptoms of true love Are leanness, jealousy,
Sing baloo loo for Jenny And where is she gone? Away to spy her mother’s land, Riding all alone. To the rich towns of Scotland,
We looked, we loved, and therewith… Death became terrible to you and m… By love we disenthralled our natur… From every comfortable philosopher Or tall, grey doctor of divinity:
With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return.