#EnglishWriters
Lady, weeping at the crossroads, Would you meet your love In the twilight with his greyhound… And the hawk on his glove? Bribe the birds then on the branch…
Our earth in 1969 Is not the planet I call mine, The world, I mean, that gives me… To hold off chaos at arm’s length. My Eden landscapes and their clim…
Underneath an abject willow, Lover, sulk no more: Act from thought should quickly fo… What is thinking for? Your unique and moping station
So an age ended, and its last deli… In bed, grown idle and unhappy; th… The sudden shadow of a giant’s eno… Would fall no more at dusk across… They slept in peace: in marshes he…
It’s no use raising a shout. No, Honey, you can cut that right… I don’t want any more hugs; Make me some fresh tea, fetch me s… Here am I, here are you:But what…
He was found by the Bureau of Sta… One against whom there was no offi… And all the reports on his conduct… That, in the modern sense of an ol… saint,
Clocks cannot tell our time of day For what event to pray Because we have no time, because We have no time until We know what time we fill,
Sharp and silent in the Clear October lighting Of a Sunday morning The great city lies; And I at a window
As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river
As the poets have mournfully sung, Death takes the innocent young, The rolling-in-money, The screamingly-funny, And those who are very well hung.
Ares at last has quit the field, The bloodstains on the bushes yiel… To seeping showers, And in their convalescent state The fractured towns associate
Underneath the leaves of life, Green on the prodigious tree, In a trance of grief Stand the fallen man and wife: Far away the single stag
Unbiased at least he was when he a… Having never set eyes on the land… Between two peoples fanatically at… With their different diets and inc… “Time,” they had briefed him in L…
Time will say nothing but I told… Time only knows the price we have… If I could tell you I would let y… If we should weep when clowns put… If we should stumble when musician…
This is the night mail crossing th… Bringing the cheque and the postal… Letters for the rich, letters for… The shop at the corner, the girl n… Pulling up Beattock, a steady cli…