#EnglishWriters
O might I leave this grassy place For spreading foam about my feet! The splendid spray upon my face, The flying brine itself were sweet If I might hear on Cromer beach
All work is over at the farm And men and maids are ripe for gle… Love slips among them sly and warm Or calls them to the chestnut-tree… As Colin looks askance at Jane
Shy maids have haunts of still del… The lover glades he never tells; And one is mine where mass the bri… And odoured chimes of foxglove-bel… A dewy, covert, silent place
Excuse me, Sweetheart, if I smear… With wisdom learnt from ancient te… Now winter time once more is here, This grease upon your lengthy feat… Behaving thus, your loyal friend
On Helen’s heart the day were n… But I may not adventure there: Here breast is guarded by a right, And she is true as fair. And though in happy days her eyes
You voluble, Velvety Vehement fellows That play on your Flying and
When first sent to School (now th… I fancied my masters and took to t… I thought to myself—here ’tis plai… Revolving at last in an orbit of j… The Alphabet Grecian I quickly c…
Adam and Eve together stood Amid the crop they both were tendi… While far away the feathery wood Of Eden in the wind was bending. And Adam, feeling in his veins
If ever there was a Golden Game To brace the nerves, to cure repin… To put the Dumps to flight and sh… It’s Cricket when the sun is shin… Gentlemen, toss the foolscap by,
Beware of those who slyly pilch In many cunning ways; Beware of little lyres that filch From undisputed bays! Beware the tumbler’s beaded brim,
O BROTHERS, who must ache and… O’er wordy tasks in London town, How scantly Laura trips for you— A poem in a gown! How rare if Grub-street grew a la…
This peach is pink with such a pin… As suits the peach divinely; The cunning colour rarely spread Fades to the yellow finely; But where to spy the truest pink
Have you seen the golfers airy Prancing forth to their vagary, Just as frisky in their gaiters As a flock of Grecian Satyrs, Looking everything heroic,
IT hardly seems that he is dead, So strange it is that we are here Beneath this great blue shell of s… With apple-bloom and pear: It scarce seems true that we can n…
WAIT but a little while— The bird will bring A heart in tune for melodies Unto the spring, Till he who ’s in the cedar there
