#Americans #NobelPrize
Greater Light, we praise Thee for… The eastern light our spires touch… The light that slants upon our wes… The twilight over stagnant pools a… Moon light and star light, owl and…
We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas… Our dried voices, when
The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageway… Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time f… And time future contained in time… If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable.
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s ca… For he’s the master criminal who c… He’s the bafflement of Scotland Y… For when they reach the scene of c… Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on…
Le garçon délabré qui n’a rien à f… Que de se gratter les doigts et se… ‘Dans mon pays il fera temps plu… Du vent, du grand soleil, et de… C’est ce qu’on appelle le jour d…
April is the cruellest month, bree… Lilacs out of the dead land, mixin… Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering
To whom I owe the leaping delight That quickens my senses in our wak… And the rhythm that governs the re… the breathing in unison. Of lovers whose bodies smell of ea…
WHEN Mr. Apollinax visited the… His laughter tinkled among the tea… I thought of Fragilion, that shy… And of Priapus in the shrubbery Gaping at the lady in the swing.
Bustopher Jones is not skin and b… In fact, he’s remarkably fat. He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight… For he’s the St. James’s Street… He’s the Cat we all greet as he w…
GROWLTIGER was a Bravo Cat,… In fact he was the roughest cat th… From Gravesend up to Oxford he pu… Rejoicing in his title of “The Te… His manners and appearance did not…
As she laughed I was aware of bec… in her laughter and being part of… teeth were only accidental stars w… for squad-drill. I was drawn in by… inhaled at each momentary recovery…
I observe: “Our sentimental frien… Or possibly (fantastic, I confess… It may be Prester John’s balloon Or an old battered lantern hung al… To light poor travellers to their…
Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden… And lived in a small house near a… Cared for by servants to the numbe… Now when she died there was silenc… And silence at her end of the stre…
THEY are rattling breakfast plat… And along the trampled edges of th… I am aware of the damp souls of ho… Sprouting despondently at area gat… The brown waves of fog toss up to…