#English #XXCentury #Metaphor #RhymedStanza
Why do you break upon this old, co… This painted peace of ours, With harsh dress hissing like a fl… With garish flowers? Why do you churn smooth waters rou…
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…
Lost manor where I walk continual… A ghost, while yet in woman’s fles… Up your broad stairs mounting with… And gliding steadfast down your co… I come by nightly custom to this r…
Small gnats that fly In hot July And lodge in sleeping ears, Can rouse therein A trumpet’s din
When outside the icy rain Comes leaping helter—skelter, Shall I tie my restive brain Snugly under shelter? Shall I make a gentle song
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 may well wonder at those bearde… Who like the scorpion and the basi… Couched in the desert sands, to un… Their scrufy flesh with tortures. They drank from pools fouled by th…
Walking through trees to cool my h… I know that David’s with me here… All that is simple, happy, strong,… Caressingly I stroke Rough bark of the friendly oak.
Grey haunted eyes, absent-mindedly… From wide, uneven orbits; one brow… Somewhat over the eye Because of a missile fragment stil… Skin-deep, as a foolish record of…
(The first corpse I saw was on th… German wires, and couldn’t be buri… The whole field was so smelly; We smelt the poor dog first: His horrid swollen belly
…but I was dead, an hour or more. I woke when I’d already passed th… That Cerberus guards, and half—wa… To Lethe, as an old Greek signpos… Above me, on my stretcher swinging…
I, an ambassador of Otherwhere To the unfederated states of Here… Enjoy (as the phrase is) Extra—territorial privileges. With heres and theres I seldom co…
IT’S hard to know if you’re alive… When steel and fire go roaring thr… One moment you’ll be crouching at… Traversing, mowing heaps down half… The next, you choke and clutch at…
What could be dafter Than John Skelton’s laughter? What sound more tenderly Than his pretty poetry? So where to rank old Skelton?
This is a wild land, country of my… With harsh craggy mountain, moor a… Seldom in these acres is heard any… But voice of cold water that runs… Through rocks and lank heather gro…