#English #XIXCentury #XXCentury
You see that sheaf of slender book… Upon the topmost shelf, At which no browser ever looks, Because they’re by . . . myself; They’re neatly bound in navy blue,
I’ll wait until my money’s gone Before I take the sleeping pills; Then when they find me in the dawn… Remote from earthly ails and ills They’ll say: “She’s broke, the fo…
On the ragged edge of the world I… And the home of the wolf shall be… And a bunch of bones on the boundl… The end of my trail . . . who know… I’m dreaming to—night in the fire—…
You may talk o’ your lutes and you… Your harps and your tabors and cym… But here in the trenches jist gie… The wee penny whistle o’ Sandy M… Oh, it’s: “Sandy, ma lad, will yo…
She’d bring to me a skein of wool And beg me to hold out my hands; so on my pipe I cease to pull And watch her twine the shining st… Into a ball so snug and neat,
A Frenchman and an Englishman Resolved to fight a duel, And hit upon a savage plan, Because their hate was cruel. They each would fire a single shot
Since four decades you’ve been to… Both Guide and Friend, I fondly hope you’ll always be, Right to the end; And though my rhymes you rarely sc…
“How good God is to me,” he said; “For have I not a mansion tall, With trees and lawns of velvet tre… And happy helpers at my call? With beauty is my life abrim,
Life, you’ve been mighty good to m… Yet here’s the end of the trail; No more mountain, moor and sea, No more saddle and sail. Waves a—leap in the laughing sun
When they shall close my careless… And look their last upon my face, I fear that some will say: “her li… A man of deep disgrace; His thoughts were bare, his words…
Hurrah! I’m off to Finistere, to… My satchel’s swinging on my back,… I’ve twenty louis in my purse, I… And so I’m starting out to—day to… I’ll go alone and glorying, with o…
Said I: “See yon vast heaven shin… What earthly sight diviner? Before such radiant Design Why doubt Designer?” Said he: “Design is just a though…
What are you doing here, Tom Thor… Where the wind has the cut of a na… Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep… You that’s a lord’s own son, Tom… Go home, go home to your clubs, T…
Some praise the Lord for Light, The living spark; I thank God for the Night The healing dark. When wearily I lie,
(France, August first, 1914) Far and near, high and clear, Hark to the call of War! Over the gorse and the golden dell… Ringing and swinging of clamorous…