#EnglishWriters
If sunset clouds could grow on tre… It would but match the may in flow… And skies be underneath the seas No topsyturvier than a shower. If mountains rose on wings to wand…
When Death was on thy drums, Demo… And with one rush of slaves the wo… In that high dawn that Kings shal… A void there was and Walter was n… Through sacked Versailles, at Val…
For every tiny town or place God made the stars especially; Babies look up with owlish face And see them tangled in a tree; You saw a moon from Sussex Downs,
They haven’t got no noses, The fallen sons of Eve; Even the smell of roses Is not what they supposes; But more than mind discloses
Heaven shall forgive you Bridge a… The clothes you wear—or do not wea… And Ladies’ Leap-frog on the lawn And dyes and drugs, and petits ver… Your vicious things shall melt in…
q|[From a souvenir programme produced for a fund raising benefit in London on 14th May 1912, for those affected by the sinking of the Titanic just a month previously. It includes poems ...
The only possible excuse for this book is that it is an answer to a challenge. Even a bad shot is dignified when he accepts a duel. When some time ago I published a series of hasty but ...
Michael, Michael: Michael of the… Michael of the Army of the Lord, Stiffen thou the hand upon the sti… Folded and shut upon the sheathed… Under the fullness of the white ro…
O well for him that loves the sun That sees the heaven-race ridden o… The splashing seas of sunset won, And shouts for victory. God made the sun to crown his head…
St George he was for England, And before he killed the dragon He drank a pint of English ale Out of an English flagon. For though he fast right readily
The sun was black with judgment, a… Blood: but between I saw a man stand, saying: ‘To me… The grass is green. ’There was no star that I forgot…
Under what withering leprous light The very grass as hair is grey, Grass in the cracks of the paven c… Of gods we graved but yesterday. Senate, republic, empire, all
The American’s a hustler, for he… And surely the American must know… He will prove to you with figures… Beginning with his boyhood long ag… When the slow-maturing anecdote is…
Sounding brass and tinkling cymbal… He that made me sealed my ears, And the pomp of gorgeous noises, Waves of triumph, waves of tears, Thundered empty round and past me,
Britannia needs no Boulevards, No spaces wide and gay: Her march was through the crooked… Along the narrow way. Nor looks she where, New York’s s…