#EnglishWriters
Forth from the dust and din, The crush, the heat, the many-spot… The odour and sense of life and lu… The wrangle and jangle of unrests, Let us take horse, Dear Heart, ta…
Take any station, pavement, circus… Where men their styles of print ma… And there—ten times more on it tha… There you shall find him swathed i… Nothing can stay the placing of hi…
An ill March noon; the flagstones… An all-round east wind volleying s… St. Martin’s Steps, where every v… Lingers to buffet, or sneap, the p… And in the gutter, squelching a ro…
The big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain.
Exceeding tall, but built so well… Half-disappears in flow of chest a… Moustache and whisker trooper-like… Frank-faced, frank-eyed, frank-hea… And always punctual-morning, noon,…
Fill a glass with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set your perfume unto mine, And forget. Every kiss we take and give
From brief delights that rise to m… Out of unfathomable dole, I thank whatever gods there be For mine unconquerable soul. In the strong clutch of Circumsta…
Hist? . . . Through the corridor’s echoes, Louder and nearer Comes a great shuffling of feet. Quick, every one of you,
Life is bitter. All the faces o… Young and old, are gray with trava… Must we only wake to toil, to tire… In the sun, among the leaves, upon… Slumber stills to dreamy death the…
From the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her passionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail,
The Artist muses at his ease, Contented that his work is done, And smiling-smiling!-as he sees His crowd collecting, one by one. Alas! his travail’s but begun!
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no regret For all the tumult that had been. The distances were still and green… And streaked with shadows cool and…
the quiet skies: And from the west, Where the sun, his day’s work ende… Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole… I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance
There’s never a delicate nurseling… But our huge London hails it, and… To wear it on her breast or at her… Her days to colour and make sweet… Crocus and daffodil and violet,
