Most venerable and learned sir, Tall and true Philosopher, These rings of smoke you blow all… With such deep thought, what sense… Small friend, with prayer and medi…
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…
Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know Spring from the woodland vine. No need for bowl or silver spoon,
I remember, Ma’am, a frosty morni… When I was five years old and bro… Marching solemnly upstairs with th… Like an angel of doom; knocked gen… “Father, the Times has a black bo…
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.
Thick and scented daisies spread Where with surface dull like lead Arabian pools of slime invite Manticors down from neighbouring h… To dip heads, to cool fiery blood
Sing baloo loo for Jenny And where is she gone? Away to spy her mother’s land, Riding all alone. To the rich towns of Scotland,
‘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…
Not to sleep all the night long, f… Counting no sheep and careless of… Welcoming the dawn confabulation Of birch, her children, who discus… Fanciful details of the promised c…
I, an ambassador of Otherwhere To the unfederated states of Here… Enjoy (as the phrase is) Extra—territorial privileges. With heres and theres I seldom co…
‘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,
If strange things happen where she… So that men say that graves open And the dead walk, or that futurit… Becomes a womb and the unborn are… Such portents are not to be wonder…
he child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, And all’s poetry with him. Rhyme and music flow in plenty
With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return.
He, of his gentleness, Thirsting and hungering Walked in the Wilderness; Soft words of grace he spoke Unto lost desert—folk