#EnglishWriters
Spring has leapt into Summer. A glory has gone from the green. The flush of the poplar has sobere… The flame in the leaf of the lime… But I am thinking of the young me…
All paths lead upward to the sky In this green isle, which mounts o… Through slumbrous valleys, veiled… From waters dancing blue and brigh… And on those leafy paths appear
Vision of peace, Joy without stai… That on my vext heart sweetly shin… Hast thou, too, known the touch of… Cares and dark hours, when in vain For thy lost quiet thou repinest?
Because thou art nearest To the mystery of the fire That is Earth’s and the soul’s And the body’s desire, Whereof we were made
I am weary of doing and dating The day with the thing to be done, This painful self translating To a language not my own. Give me to fashion a thing;
Pride is the untrue mask, Shame is a cloak that clings, Tenderness oft is a trammelling ve… Because of truth that stings. O to be stript, and to use
Tremulous out of that long darknes… Wast thou, O blossom, made Upon the wintry bough? What drew thee to appear, Like a thought in the mind,
‘O King Amasis, hail! News from thy friend, the King Po… My oars have never rested on the s… From Samos, nor on land my horse’… Till I might tell my tale.’
In the high leaves of a walnut, On the very topmost boughs, A boy that climbed the branching b… His cradled limbs would house. On the airy bed that rocked him
Words, breathing words, full—murmu… How you enrich the thoughts that d… With far—brought perfume, that no… Yet stirs the mind to flower in th… Sometimes how lulling like the rai…
Ezekiel in the Valley of Dry Bon… Heard the word of the Lord comman… ‘Prophesy to these bones, that the… There was a noise and a shaking; a… Clove together, and sinew and fles…
By white St. Martin’s, where the… And plashed unheard in the busy mo… March, with rippling shadow and su… Laughing riotous round the gusty s… From frail narcissus heaped in bas…
The evening takes me from your sid… The darkness creeps into my breast… Swift clouds across the dim heaven… And fill me with their vague unres… I wander sad, and know not why:
As I walked through London, The fresh wound burning in my brea… As I walked through London, Longing to have forgotten, to hard… A sudden consolation, a softening…
From the howl of the wind As I opened the door And entered, the firelight Was soft on the floor. Mute each in their places