#EnglishWriters
The beach was crowded. Pausing no… He groped and fiddled doggedly alo… His worn face glaring on the thoug… The stony peevishness of sightless… He seemed scarce older than his cl…
Behold me waiting-waiting for the… A little while, and at a leap I s… The thick, sweet mystery of chloro… The drunken dark, the little death… The gods are good to me: I have n…
Something is dead . . . The grace of sunset solitudes, the… Of the solitary moon, the pomp and… Of round on round of shining soldi… Patrolling space, the bounties of…
Take, dear, my little sheaf of son… For, old or new, All that is good in them belongs Only to you; And, singing as when all was young…
THE day’s high work is over and d… And these no more will need the su… Blow, you bugles of England, blow… These are gone where all must go, Mightily gone from the field they…
Kate-a-Whimsies, John-a-Dreams, Still debating, still delay, And the world’s a ghost that gleam… Wavers—vanishes away! We must live while live we can;
O, have you blessed, behind the st… The blue sheen of the skies, When June the roses round her cal… Then do you know the light that fa… From her beloved eyes.
Once on a time There was a little boy: a master-m… By virtue of a Book Of magic—O, so magical it filled His life with visionary pomps
Space and dread and the dark - Over a livid stretch of sky Cloud-monsters crawling, like a fu… Of huge, primeval presences Stooping beneath the weight
Easy is the Triolet, If you really learn to make it! Once a neat refrain you get, Easy is the Triolet. As you see! I pay my debt
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pol… I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance
If I were king, my pipe should be… The skies of time and chance are s… We would inform them all with blan… Delight alone would need to shed a… For dream and deed should war no m…
Fill a glass with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set your perfume unto mine, And forget. Every kiss we take and give
Above the Crags that fade and glo… Starts the bare knee of Arthur’s… Ridged high against the evening bl… The Old Town rises, street on str… With lamps bejewelled, straight ah…
His beat lies knee—high through a… A dust of terror and torture, grie… Ghosts that are England’s wonder,… Throng where he walks, an antic of… A sense of long immedicable tears