WHAT have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere,

From the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her passionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail,

Down through the ancient Strand The spirit of October, mild and b… And sauntering, takes his way This golden end of afternoon, As though the corn stood yellow in…

With a ripple of leaves and a tink… The full world rolls in a rhythm o… And the winds are one with the clo… Midsummer days! Midsummer days! The dusk grows vast; in a purple h…

Forth from the dust and din, The crush, the heat, the many-spot… The odour and sense of life and lu… The wrangle and jangle of unrests, Let us take horse, Dear Heart, ta…

A hard north-easter fifty winters… Has bronzed and shrivelled sere he… Her locks are wild and grey, her t… Her foot is vast, her bowed leg sp… A wide blue cloak, a squat and stu…

Friends... old friends... One sees how it ends. A woman looks Or a man lies, And the pleasant brooks

Out of the poisonous East, Over a continent of blight, Like a maleficent Influence relea… From the most squalid cellerage of… The Wind-Fiend, the abominable—

Here in this dim, dull, double-bed… I play the father to a brace of bo… Ailing but apt for every sort of n… Bedfast but brilliant yet with hea… Roden, the Irishman, is ‘sieven p…

Beside the idle summer sea, And in the vacant summer days, Light Love came fluting down the… Where you were loitering with me. Who have not welcomed even as we,

O gather me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes… And winter waits behind it. For with the dream foregone, foreg…

Crosses and troubles a-many have p… One or two women (God bless them!… I have worked and dreamed, and I’… Of art and drink I have had my fi… I’ve comforted here, and I’ve suc…

Not to the staring Day, For all the importunate questionin… In his big, violent voice, Shall those mild things of bulk an… The Trees—God’s sentinels

If it should come to be, This proof of you and me, This type and sign Of hours that smiled and shone, And yet seemed dead and gone