#English #XXCentury
Those famous men of old, the Ogre… They had long beards and stinking… They were wide-mouthed, long-yarde… Yet of no taller stature, Sirs, t… They lived on Ogre-Strand, which…
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,
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
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
To the woods, to the woods is the… In his grotto the maiden sits alon… She gazes up with a weary smile At the rafter—hanging crocodile, The slowly swinging crocodile.
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
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.
Double red daisies, they’re my flo… Which nobody else may grow. In a big quarrelsome house like ou… They try it sometimes—but no, I root them up because they’re my…
Feet and faces tingle In that frore land: Legs wobble and go wingle, You scarce can stand. The skies are jewelled all around,
Small gnats that fly In hot July And lodge in sleeping ears, Can rouse therein A trumpet’s din
Listen now this time Shortly to my rhyme That herewith starts About certain kind hearts In those stricken parts
The vague sea thuds against the ma… And from their fragments age-long… Pebbles like flowers. Or the vague weather wanders in th… And up spring flowers with coloure…
Children, if you dare to think Of the greatness, rareness, muchne… Fewness of this precious only Endless world in which you say You live, you think of things like…
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…
Mother: What’s in that cupboard,… Mary: Which cupboard, mother dear… Mother: The cupboard of red mahog… With handles shining clear. Mary: That cupboard, dearest moth…
