#EnglishWriters
Face in the tomb, that lies so sti… May I draw near, And watch your sleep and love you, Without word or tear. You smile, your eyelids flicker;
Art is a gipsy, Fickle as fair, Good to kiss and flirt with, But marry—if you dare!
Above the town a monstrous wheel i… With glowing spokes of red, Low in the west its fiery axle bur… And, lost amid the spaces overhead… A vague white moth, the moon, is f…
When the musicians hide away their… And all the petals of the rose are… And snow is drifting through the h… And the last cricket’s heart is co… O Joy, where shall we find thee?
The valiant girls—of them I sing— Who daily to their business go, Happy as larks, and fresh as sprin… They are the bravest things I kno… At eight, from out my lazy tower,
AH, London! London! our delight, Great flower that opens but at nig… Great City of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done. Lamp after lamp against the sky
Dear Heart, what thing may symbol… A love like ours, what gift, whate… Hold more significance 'twixt thee… Than paltry words a truth miraculo… Or the poor signs that in astronom…
Silence, whose drowsy eyelids are… And whose half-sleeping eyes are t… On whose still breast the water-li… For all her speech the whisper of… Made of all things that in the wat…
This life I squander, hating the… That will not bring me either Res… This health I hack and ravage as… These nerves I fain would shatter… I fain would break—this heart that…
Thou shall not me persuade This love of ours Can in a moment fade, Like summer flowers; That a swift word or two,
(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…
Surely at last, O Lady, the sweet… That bringeth in the happy singing… Groweth to pearly queendom, and fu… Shall Love and Song go hand in ha… For all the pain that all too long…
Soldier going to the war— Will you take my heart with you, So that I may share a little In the famous things you do? Soldier going to the war—
Don’t you love the eyes that come… The grey-blue eyes so strangely gr… The fighting loving eyes, The eyes that tell no lies– Don’t you love the eyes that come…
(TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER) A poet hungered, as well he might– Not a morsel since yesternight! And sad he grew—good reason why— For the poet had nought wherewith…