#EnglishWriters
If you could bring her glories bac… You gentle sirs who sift the dust And burrow in the mould and must Of Babylon for bric-a-brac; Who catalogue and pigeon-hole
Babylon where I go dreaming When I weary of to-day, Weary of a world grown gray. God loves an idle rainbow, No less than laboring seas.
When flighting time is on I go With clap-net and decoy, A-fowling after goldfinches And other birds of joy; I lurk among the thickets of
“How fared you when you mortal wer… What did you see on my peopled sta… “Oh well enough,” I answered her, “It went for me where mortals are! ”I saw blue flowers and the merlin…
Time, You Old Gypsy Man Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? All things I’ll give you
“Come, try your skill, kind gentle… A penny for three tries!” Some threw and lost, some threw an… A ten-a-penny prize. She was a tawny gypsy girl,
Eve, with her basket, was Deep in the bells and grass, Wading in bells and grass Up to her knees, Picking a dish of sweet
For all its flowers and trailing b… Its singing birds and streams, This valley’s not the blissful spo… The paradise, it seems. I don’t forget a man I met
Not baser than his own homekeeping… Whose journeyman he is - Blind sons and breastless daughter… Whose darkness pardons his, - About the world, while all the wor…
The book was dull, its pictures As leaden as its lore, But one glad, happy picture Made up for all and more: ’Twas that of you, sweet peasant,
The leaves looked in at the window Of the house across the way, At a man that had sinned like you… And all poor human clay. He muttered: 'In a gambol
‘Twould ring the bells of Heaven The wildest peal for years, If Parson lost his senses And people came to theirs, And he and they together
The world’s gone forward to its la… And dropt an old man done with by… To sit alone among the bats and st… At miles and miles and miles of mo… Lit only with last shreds of dying…
Sour fiend, go home and tell the… For once you met your master, - A man who carried in his soul Three charms against disaster, The Devil and disaster.
The morning that my baby came They found a baby swallow dead, And saw a something, hard to name, Flit moth-like over baby’s bed. My joy, my flower, my baby dear