#EnglishWriters
The beach was crowded. Pausing no… He groped and fiddled doggedly alo… His worn face glaring on the thoug… The stony peevishness of sightless… He seemed scarce older than his cl…
You are carried in a basket, Like a carcase from the shambles, To the theatre, a cockpit Where they stretch you on a table. Then they bid you close your eyeli…
A child, Curious and innocent, Slips from his Nurse, and rejoici… Loses himself in the Fair. Thro’ the jostle and din
Was I a Samurai renowned, Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bo… A histrion angular and profound? A priest? a porter?—Child, althou… I have forgotten clean, I know
With a ripple of leaves and a tink… The full world rolls in a rhythm o… And the winds are one with the clo… Midsummer days! Midsummer days! The dusk grows vast; in a purple h…
To GARRYOWEN upon an organ gr… Two girls are jigging. Riotously… With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, ha… As in the tumult of a witches’ rou… Youngsters and youngsters round th…
Carry me out Into the wind and the sunshine, Into the beautiful world. O, the wonder, the spell of the st… The stature and strength of the ho…
WHAT have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere,
His beat lies knee—high through a… A dust of terror and torture, grie… Ghosts that are England’s wonder,… Throng where he walks, an antic of… A sense of long immedicable tears
Forth from the dust and din, The crush, the heat, the many-spot… The odour and sense of life and lu… The wrangle and jangle of unrests, Let us take horse, Dear Heart, ta…
Hist? . . . Through the corridor’s echoes, Louder and nearer Comes a great shuffling of feet. Quick, every one of you,
These, to you now, O, more than e… Now that the Ancient Enemy Has passed, and we, we two that ar… A piece of perfect Life Turn to so ravishing a shape of D…
An ill March noon; the flagstones… An all-round east wind volleying s… St. Martin’s Steps, where every v… Lingers to buffet, or sneap, the p… And in the gutter, squelching a ro…
THE day’s high work is over and d… And these no more will need the su… Blow, you bugles of England, blow… These are gone where all must go, Mightily gone from the field they…
Gold or silver, every day, Dies to gray. There are knots in every skein. Hours of work and hours of play Fade away