#English
NO courtier this, and naught to c… Fawned not on thrones, hymned not… Yet, in one strain, that few remem… He had the password of King Obero… And seeing a London seamstress’s…
So, being risen, the Prince in br… Forth to the market-place, where b… Of them that bought and them that… Of many sounds in murmurous union– buzzing as of bees about their hiv…
Lo, thou and I, my love, And the sad stars above,- Thou and I, I and thou! Ah could we lie as now Ever and aye, my love,
(12TH OCTOBER 1492) From his adventurous prime He dreamed the dream sublime: Over his wandering youth It hung, a beckoning star.
Few friends are mine, though many… Who, meeting oft a phantasm that m… To be myself, and hath my face and… And whose thin fraud I wink at pr… Account this light impostor very m…
Just for a day you crossed my life… Put my ignobler dreams to sudden s… Went your bright way, and left me… On my own world of poorer deed and… To fall back on my meaner world, a…
That night within the City of You… Musicians playing to the multitude On many a gold and silver instrume… Whose differing souls yet chimed i… And sooth-tongued singers, throate…
So without rest or tarriance all t… Until the world was blear with com… Forth fared the princely fugitive,… His wearied feet till morn returni… Some village all a-hum with wakefu…
Inhospitably hast thou entertained… O Poet, us the bidden to thy boar… Whom in mid-feast, and while our t… Are one laudation of the festal ch… Thou from thy table dost dismiss,…
April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears! April, that mine ears
The mighty poets from their flowin… Dispense like casual alms the care… Through throngs of men their lonel… Let fall their costly thoughts, no… Not mine the rich and showering ha…
Come hither, who grow cloyed to su… With lyric draughts o’ersweet, fro… On Hybla not Parnassus mountain:… With beakers rinsed of the dulcifl… Hither, and see a magic miracle
The men who man our batteries, The men who serve our guns, They need not honeyed flatteries, For they are Britain’s sons! They go, when Duty speeds them,
’Twas at this season, year by year… The singer who lies songless here Was wont to woo a less austere, Less deep repose, Where Rotha to Winandermere
City that waitest to be sung,— For whom no hand To mighty strains the lyre hath st… In all this land, Though mightier theme the mighties…