#EnglishWriters
I think she sleeps: it must be sle… Hangs that abandoned arm toward th… The face turned with it. Now make… Sleep on: it is your husband, not… The Poet’s black stage-lion of wr…
[Written for the Charing Cross A… Seen, too clear and historic withi… Frown when the Autumn days strike… They of our mortal diseases find n… Errors they of the soul, past the…
Gracefullest leaper, the dappled f… Curves over brambles with berries… Light as a bubble that flies from… Whisked by the laundry-wife out of… Wavy he comes, woolly, all at his…
The old grey mother she thrummed o… There is a rose that’s ready; And which of the handsome young me… There’s a rose that’s ready for cl… My daughter, come hither, come hit…
Or shall we run with Artemis Or yield the breast to Aphrodite? Both are mighty; Both give bliss; Each can torture if divided;
The misery is greater, as I live! To know her flesh so pure, so keen… That she does penance now for no o… Save against Love. The less can… The less can I forgive, though I…
Prince of Bards was old Aneurin; He the grand Gododin sang; All his numbers threw such fire in… Struck his harp so wild a twang; - Still the wakeful Briton borrows
Follow me, follow me, Over brake and under tree, Thro’ the bosky tanglery, Brushwood and bramble! Follow me, follow me,
Now farewell to you! you are One of my dearest, whom I trust: Now follow you the Western star, And cast the old world off as dust… From many friends adieu! adieu!
To sit on History in an easy chai… Still rivalling the wild hordes by… Sure, this beseems a race of lagga… Unwarned by those plain letters sc… If more than hands’ and armsful be…
Here Jack and Tom are paired with… Curved open to the river-reach is… A country merry-making on the gree… Fair space for signal shakings of… That little screwy fiddler from hi…
February 2, 1901 Her sacred body bear: the tenement Of that strong soul now ranked wit… Her heart upon her people’s heart… Hence is she Royalty’s lodestar t…
If that thou hast the gift of stre… Thy part is to uplift the trodden… Else in a giant’s grasp until the… A hopeless wrestler shall thy soul…
Now the frog, all lean and weak, Yawning from his famished sleep, Water in the ditch doth seek, Fast as he can stretch and leap: Marshy king-cups burning near
It ended, and the morrow brought t… Her eyes were guilty gates, that l… By shutting all too zealous for th… Each sucked a secret, and each wor… But, oh, the bitter taste her beau…