#EnglishWriters
Blithe dreams arise to greet us, And life feels clean and new, For the old love comes to meet us In the dawning and the dew. O’erblown with sunny shadows,
Let us be drunk, and for a while f… Forget, and, ceasing even from reg… Live without reason and despite of… As in a dream preposterous and sub… Where place and hour and means for…
Do you remember That afternoon—that Sunday aftern… When, as the kirks were ringing in… And the grey city teemed With Sabbath feelings and aspects…
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
Kate-a-Whimsies, John-a-Dreams, Still debating, still delay, And the world’s a ghost that gleam… Wavers—vanishes away! We must live while live we can;
Blue-eyed and bright of face but w… Into the sere of virginal decay, I view her as she enters, day by d… As a sweet sunset almost overpast. Kindly and calm, patrician to the…
He’s called The General from the… And dash with which he sneaks a bi… And all its fares; challenged, or… Back-answers of the newest he’ll e… He reins his horses with an air; h…
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…
On the way to Kew, By the river old and gray, Where in the Long Ago, We laughed and loitered so, I met a ghost to-day,
The gods are dead? Perhaps they… Living at least in Lempriere unde… The wise, the fair, the awful, the… Are one and all. I like to thi… In some still land of lilacs and t…
A wink from Hesper, falling Fast in the wintry sky, Comes through the even blue, Dear, like a word from you… Is it good-bye?
A black and glassy float, opaque a… The loch, at furthest ebb supine i… Reversing, mirrored in its luminou… The calm grey skies; the solemn sp… Heather, and corn, and wisps of lo…
Madam Life’s a piece in bloom Death goes dogging everywhere: She’s the tenant of the room, He’s the ruffian on the stair. You shall see her as a friend,
Two and thirty is the ploughman. He’s a man of gallant inches, And his hair is close and curly, And his beard; But his face is wan and sunken,
Down through the ancient Strand The spirit of October, mild and b… And sauntering, takes his way This golden end of afternoon, As though the corn stood yellow in…