#EnglishWriters
What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. They are to be happy in:
This is the first thing I have understood: Time is the echo of an axe Within a wood.
At last you yielded up the album,… Once open, sent me distracted. Al… Matt and glossy on the thick black… Too much confectionery, too rich: I choke on such nutritious images.
The widest prairies have electric… For though old cattle know they mu… Young steers are always scenting p… Not here but anywhere. Beyond the… Leads them to blunder up against t…
Talking in bed ought to be easiest… Lying together there goes back so… An emblem of two people being hone… Yet more and more time passes sile… Outside the wind’s incomplete unre…
I feared these present years, The middle twenties, When deftness disappears, And each event is Freighted with a source—encrusting…
About twenty years ago Two girls came in where I worked— A bosomy English rose And her friend in specs I could t… Faces in those days sparked
Slowly the women file to where he… Upright in rimless glasses, silver… Dark suit, white collar. Stewards… Persuade them onwards to his voice… Within whose warm spring rain of l…
Why did I dream of you last night… Now morning is pushing back hair w… Memories strike home, like slaps i… Raised on elbow, I stare at the p… beyond the window.
I have started to say “A quarter of a century” Or “thirty years back” About my own life. It makes me breathless
When I was a child, I thought, Casually, that solitude Never needed to be sought. Something everybody had, Like nakedness, it lay at hand,
She kept her songs, they kept so l… The covers pleased her: One bleached from lying in a sunny… One marked in circles by a vase of… One mended, when a tidy fit had se…
Home is so sad. It stays as it wa… Shaped in the comfort of the last… As if to win them back. Instead,… Of anyone to please, it withers so… Having no heart to put aside the t…
To step over the low wall that div… Road from concrete walk above the… Brings sharply back something know… The miniature gaiety of seasides. Everything crowds under the low ho…
If grief could burn out Like a sunken coal The heart would rest quiet The unrent soul Be as still as a veil