#EnglishWriters
The old Pig said to the little pi… ‘In the forest is truffles and mas… Follow me then, all ye little pigs… Follow me fast!’ The Charcoal-burner sat in the sh…
It’s a very odd thing - As odd can be - That whatever Miss T eats Turns into Miss T.; Porridge and apples,
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoo… This way, and that, she peers, and… Silver fruit upon silver trees; One by one the casements catch
When music sounds, gone is the ear… And all her lovely things even lov… Her flowers in vision flame, her f… Lift burdened branches, stilled wi… When music sounds, out of the wate…
When all, and birds, and creeping… When the dark of night is deep, From the moving wonder of their li… Commit themselves to sleep. Without a thought, or fear, they s…
Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched wi… Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. His drowsy flock streams on before…
Who said, “Peacock Pie”? The old King to the sparrow: Who said, “Crops are ripe”? Rust to the harrow: Who said, “Where sleeps she now?
See this house, how dark it is Beneath its vast-boughed trees! Not one trembling leaflet cries To that Watcher in the skies— ‘Remove, remove thy searching gaze…
Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on,
I was at peace until you came And set a careless mind aflame; I lived in quiet; cold, content; All longing in safe banishment, Until your ghostly lips and eyes
All but blind In his chambered hole, Gropes for worms The four-clawed mole. All but blind
Wide are the meadows of night, And daisies are shinng there, Tossing their lovely dews, Lustrous and fair; And through these sweet fields go,
Tom told his dog called Tim to be… And up at once he sat, His two clear amber eyes fixed fas… His haunches on his mat.Tom poise… His nose; then, ‘Trust! ’ says he…
When thin-strewn memory I look th… I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, Her nose, her hair—her muffled wor… And how she’d open her green eyes,
Clouded with snow The cold winds blow, And shrill on leafless bough The robin with its burning breast Alone sings now.