Call it a good marriage — For no one ever questioned Her warmth, his masculinity, Their interlocking views; Except one stray graphologist
‘Give us Rain, Rain,’ said the be… ‘Not so much Sun, Not so much Sun.’ But the Sun smiles bravely and en… And no rain falls and no waters ru…
Finis, apparent on an earlier page… With fallen obelisk for colophon, Must this be here repeated? Death has been ruefully announced And to die once is death enough,
Though I am an old man With my bones very brittle, Though I am a poor old man Worth very little, Yet I suck at my long pipe
In my body lives a flame, Flame that burns me all the day; When a fierce sun does the same, I am charred away. Who could keep a smiling wit,
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:
We may well wonder at those bearde… Who like the scorpion and the basi… Couched in the desert sands, to un… Their scrufy flesh with tortures. They drank from pools fouled by th…
Walking through trees to cool my h… I know that David’s with me here… All that is simple, happy, strong,… Caressingly I stroke Rough bark of the friendly oak.
Where is the landlord of old Hawk… And what of Master Straddler this… He’s along in the tap—room with br… And ten bold companions all drinki… Where is the daughter of old Hawk…
He, of his gentleness, Thirsting and hungering Walked in the Wilderness; Soft words of grace he spoke Unto lost desert—folk
Love, do not count your labour los… Though I turn sullen, grim, retir… Even at your side; my thought is c… With fancies by old longings fired… And when I answer you, some days
To bring the dead to life Is no great magic. Few are wholly dead: Blow on a dead man’s embers And a live flame will start.
Henry, Henry, do you love me? Do I love you, Mary? Oh, can you mean to liken me To the aspen tree. Whose leaves do shake and vary,
Through long nursery nights he sto… By my bed unwearying, Loomed gigantic, formless, queer, Purring in my haunted ear That same hideous nightmare thing,
What could be dafter Than John Skelton’s laughter? What sound more tenderly Than his pretty poetry? So where to rank old Skelton?
