#English #XXCentury
You young friskies who today Jump and fight in Father’s hay With bows and arrows and wooden sp… Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers… Happy though these hours you spend…
Across the room my silent love I… Where you sit sewing in bed by can… Your young stern profile and indus… Displayed against the blind in a s… To Dinda’s grave delight.
To you who’d read my songs of War And only hear of blood and fame, I’ll say (you’ve heard it said bef… “War’s Hell!” and if you doubt th… Today I found in Mametz Wood
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…
Children born of fairy stock Never need for shirt or frock, Never want for food or fire, Always get their hearts desire: Jingle pockets full of gold,
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
The bards falter in shame, their r… Stumbles, with marrow—bones the dr… Pelt them for their delay. It is a something fearful in the s… Plagues them —an unknown grief tha…
His eyes are quickened so with gri… He can watch a grass or leaf Every instant grow; he can Clearly through a flint wall see, Or watch the startled spirit flee
Yet once an earlier David took Smooth pebbles from the brook: Out between the lines he went To that one—sided tournament, A shepherd boy who stood out fine
The great sun sinks behind the tow… Through a red mist of Volnay wine… But what’s the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the tow… You’ll only skip the page, you’ll…
Small gnats that fly In hot July And lodge in sleeping ears, Can rouse therein A trumpet’s din
Near Clapham village, where field… Saint Edward met a beggar man. It was Christmas morning, the chu… The old man trembled for the fierc… Saint Edward cried, “It is monstr…
The butterfly, the cabbage white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight, Yet has —who knows so well as I?…
I now delight In spite Of the might And the right Of classic tradition,
‘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,
