#EnglishWriters
She’s somewhere in the sunlight st… Her tears are in the falling ra… She calls me in the wind’s soft so… And with the flowers she comes… Yon bird is but her messenger,
Men say—beyond the western seas The happy isles no longer glow, No sailor sights Hesperides, All that was long ago. No longer in a glittering morn
AH, London! London! our delight, Great flower that opens but at nig… Great City of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done. Lamp after lamp against the sky
Only a breath-hardly a breath! Th… Is still a huddled alabaster floor Of shelving ice and shattered slab… Stern wreckage of the fiercely fro… Gleaming in mailed wastes of white…
I read there is a man who sits apa… A sort of human spider in his den, Who meditates upon a fearful art— The swiftest way to slay his fello… Behind a mask of glass he dreams h…
Too late I bring my heart, too la… Too late to bring the true love th… Too long, unthrift, I gave it her… Spent it in idle love and idle son… Youth seemed so rich, with kisses…
‘Kiss me, dear Love!’- But there was none to hear, Only the darkness round about my b… And hollow silence, for thy face h… Though in my dreaming it had come…
_You that would break with the Pa… Why with so rude a gesture take yo… None hinders, go your way; but whe… Contempt and boorish scorn Upon the womb from which even you…
Within that wood where thine own s… O! Poet, thou art passed, and at… Hollow and sere we cry, yet win no… But the dark muttering of the fore… We may not tread, nor pierce with…
I will walk down to the valley And lay my head in her breast, Where are two white doves, The Queen of Love’s, In a silken nest;
I bring a message from the stream To fan the burning cheeks of town, From morning’s tower Of pearl and rose I bring this cup of crystal down,
The lawless love that would not be… The love that waited, and in waiti… The love that met and mated, satis… Ah, love, ’twas good to climb forb… Who would not follow where his Ju…
Nature, that makes Professors all… And, filling idle souls with idle… Turns out small Poets every other… Made earth for men—but seldom puts… Ah, Minto, thou of that minority
(TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER) A poet hungered, as well he might– Not a morsel since yesternight! And sad he grew—good reason why— For the poet had nought wherewith…
Like a flower in the frost Sweet Jenny lies, With her frail hands calmly crosse… And close-shut eyes. Bring a candle, for the room