Listen now this time Shortly to my rhyme That herewith starts About certain kind hearts In those stricken parts
Beauty in trouble flees to the goo… On whom she can rely To pay her cab—fare, run a steamin… Poultice her bruised eye; Will not at first, whether for sha…
One moonlit night a ship drove in, A ghost ship from the west, Drifting with bare mast and lone t… Like a mermaid drest In long green weed and barnacles:
Allie, call the birds in, The birds from the sky. Allie calls, Allie sings, Down they all fly. First there came
As I walked out one harvest night About the stroke of One, The Moon attained to her full hei… Stood beaming like the Sun. She exorcised the ghostly wheat
Desire, first, by a natural miracl… United bodies, united hearts, blaz… Transcended bodies, transcended he… Two souls, now unalterably one In whole love always and for ever,
‘Gabble—gabble . . . brethren . .… My window glimpses larch and heath… I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whethe… The text is praise or exhortation,
Have you spent the money I gave y… Ay, father I have. A fourpence on cakes, two pennies… To a beggar I gave. The lake of yellow brimstone boil…
What could be dafter Than John Skelton’s laughter? What sound more tenderly Than his pretty poetry? So where to rank old Skelton?
A page, a huntsman and a priest of… Her lovers, met in jealous contrar… Equally claiming the sole parentho… Of him the perfect crown of their… Then, whom to admit, herself she c…
She, then, like snow in a dark nig… Fell secretly. And the world wake… With dazzling of the drowsy eye, So that some muttered 'Too much l… And drew the curtains close.
Now I begin to know at last, These nights when I sit down to r… The form and measure of that vast God we call Poetry, he who stoops And leaps me through his paper hoo…
Why have such scores of lovely, gi… Married impossible men? Simple self—sacrifice may be ruled… And missionary endeavour, nine tim… Repeat “impossible men”: not merel…
‘Gabble—gabble, . . . brethren, .… My window frames forest and heathe… I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whethe… The text is praise or exhortation,
It is a poet’s privilege and fate To fall enamoured of the one Muse Who variously haunts this island e… She was your mother, Darien, And presaged by the darting halcyo…