#EnglishWriters
There is too much beauty upon this… For lonely men to bear, Too many eyes, too enchanted skies… Too many things too fair; And the man who would live the lif…
You must mean more than just this… You perfect thing so subtly fair, Simple and complex as a flower, Wrought with such planetary care; How patient the eternal power
The fight I loved—the good old fi… Was clear as day ‘twixt Might and… Satrap and slave on either hand, Tiller and tyrant of the land; One delved the earth the other tro…
Within that wood where thine own s… O! Poet, thou art passed, and at… Hollow and sere we cry, yet win no… But the dark muttering of the fore… We may not tread, nor pierce with…
What shall I sing when all is sun… And every tale is told, And in the world is nothing young That was not long since old? Why should I fret unwilling ears
When the long day has faded to its… The flowers gone, and all the sing… And there is no companion left sav… Ah! there is one, Though in her grave she lies this…
Her eyes are bluebells now, her vo… And the long sighing grass her ele… She who a woman was is now a star In the high heaven shining down on…
When last I saw this opening rose That holds the summer in its hand, And with its beauty overflows And sweetens half a shire of land, It was a black and cindered thing,
(January 19, 1909) Poet of doom, dementia, and death, Of beauty singing in a charnel hou… Like the lost soul of a poor moon-… With too much loving of some lord…
There blooms a flower in Trebizon… Stored with such honey for the bee… (So saith the antique book I conn… Of such alluring fragrancy, Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree;
(To the Memory of Austin Dobson) Master of the lyric inn Where the rarer sort so long Drew the rein, to 'scape the din Of the cymbal and the gong,
Nature, that makes Professors all… And, filling idle souls with idle… Turns out small Poets every other… Made earth for men—but seldom puts… Ah, Minto, thou of that minority
Face with the forest eyes, And the wayward wild-wood hair, How shall a man be wise, When a girl’s so fair; How, with her face once seen,
Paths that wind O’er the hills and by the streams I must leave behind— Dawns and dews and dreams. Trails that go
I am too proud of loving thee, too… Of the sweet months and years that… To feign a heart indifferent to th… Too thankful-happy that the gods a… Our orbits cross,