#EnglishWriters
I have started to say “A quarter of a century” Or “thirty years back” About my own life. It makes me breathless
When getting my nose in a book Cured most things short of school, It was worth ruining my eyes To know I could still keep cool, And deal out the old right hook
My mother, who hates thunder storm… Holds up each summer day and shake… It out suspiciously, lest swarms Of grape—dark clouds are lurking t… But when the August weather break…
For nations vague as weed, For nomads among stones, Small—statured cross—faced tribes And cobble—close families In mill—towns on dark mornings
Cut grass lies frail: Brief is the breath Mown stalks exhale. Long, long the death It dies in the white hours
The cloakroom pegs are empty now, And locked the classroom door, The hollow desks are lined with du… And slow across the floor A sunbeam creeps between the chair…
Once I am sure there’s nothing go… I step inside, letting the door th… Another church: matting, seats, an… And little books; sprawlings of fl… For Sunday, brownish now; some br…
Higher than the handsomest hotel The lucent comb shows up for miles… All round it close—ribbed streets… Like a great sigh out of the last… The porters are scruffy; what keep…
About twenty years ago Two girls came in where I worked— A bosomy English rose And her friend in specs I could t… Faces in those days sparked
Like the train’s beat Swift language flutters the lips Of the Polish airgirl in the corn… The swinging and narrowing sun Lights her eyelashes, shapes
The large cool store selling cheap… Set out in simple sizes plainly (Knitwear, Summer Casuals, Hose, In Browns and greys, maroons and… Conjures the weekday world of thos…
Why should I let the toad work Squat on my life? Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork And drive the brute off? Six days of the week it soils
When I was a child, I thought, Casually, that solitude Never needed to be sought. Something everybody had, Like nakedness, it lay at hand,
The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief… Is it that they are born again
Is it for now or for always, The world hangs on a stalk? Is it a trick or a trysting—place, The woods we have found to walk? Is it a mirage or miracle,