#EnglishWriters
Why did you go away without one wo… Wave of the hand, or token of good… Nor leave some message for me with… Some sign to find you by; Some stray of blossom on the winte…
The floating call of the cuckoo, Soft little globes of bosom-shaped… Came and went at the window; And, out in the great green world, Those maidens each morn the flower…
Primrose and Violet– May they help thee to forget All that love should not remember, Sweet as meadows after rain When the sun has come again,
In vain with whip and knotted cord The hirelings of hypocrisy Would make us comely for the Lord… Think ye God works through such a… Paid Puritan, plump Pharisee,
Fly, little note, And know no rest Till warm you lie Within that nest Which is her breast;
My dryad hath her hiding place Among ten thousand trees. She flies to cover At step of a lover, And where to find her lovely face
Summer gone, Winter here; Ways are white, Skies are clear. And the sun
The Cry of the Little Peoples we… The Czech and the Pole, and the… We ask but a little portion of the… Only to sow and sing and reap in t… We ask not coaling stations, nor p…
Silence, whose drowsy eyelids are… And whose half-sleeping eyes are t… On whose still breast the water-li… For all her speech the whisper of… Made of all things that in the wat…
Am I so soon grown tired?-yet thi… Can open still each morn so blue a… This great old river still through… Run like a happy boy to holidays, This sun be still a bridegroom, th…
(January 19, 1909) Poet of doom, dementia, and death, Of beauty singing in a charnel hou… Like the lost soul of a poor moon-… With too much loving of some lord…
Sore in need was I of a faithful… And it seemed to me that life Had come to its much desired end– Just then God gave me a wife. I had seen the beauty of fairy thi…
Through the dark wood There came to me a friend, Bringing in his cold hands Two words-'The End.’ His face was fair
My door is always left ajar, Lest you should suddenly slip thro… A little breathless frightened sta… Each footfall sets my heart abeat, I always think it may be you,
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;