Verses Turned… (John Betjeman Poem)
Across the wet November night The church is bright with candlelight And waiting Evensong. A single bell with plaintive strokes ...
Across the wet November night The church is bright with candlelight And waiting Evensong. A single bell with plaintive strokes ...
With one consuming roar along the shingle The long wave claws and rakes the pebbles down To where its backwash ...
The flag that hung half-mast today Seemed animate with being As if it knew for who it flew And will ...
Hark, I hear the bells of Westgate, I will tell you what they sigh, Where those minarets and steeples Prick ...
The sleepy sound of a tea-time tide Slaps at the rocks the sun has dried, Too lazy, almost, to sink ...
We used to picnic where the thrift Grew deep and tufted to the edge; We saw the yellow foam flakes ...
At the end of a long-walled garden in a red provincial town, A brick path led to a mulberry- scanty ...
Cocooned in Time, at this inhuman height, The packaged food tastes neutrally of clay, We never seem to catch the ...
Up the ash tree climbs the ivy, Up the ivy climbs the sun, With a twenty-thousand pattering, Has a valley ...
Was it worth keeping the Halt open, We thought as we looked at the sky Red through the spread of ...
High dormers are rising So sharp and surprising, And ponticum edges The driveways of gravel; Stone houses from ledges Look ...
The three men coming down the winter hill In brown, with tall poles and a pack of hounds At heel, ...
The sea runs back against itself With scarcely time for breaking wave To cannonade a slatey shelf And thunder under ...
Isn't she lovely, "the Mistress"? With her wide-apart grey-green eyes, The droop of her lips and, when she smiles, Her ...
Bells are booming down the bohreens, White the mist along the grass, Now the Julias, Maeves and Maureens Move between ...
Those moments, tasted once and never done, Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun. A far-off blow-hole booming like ...
The kind old face, the egg-shaped head, The tie, discreetly loud, The loosely fitting shooting clothes, A closely fitting shroud. ...
From Bermondsey to Wandsworth So many churches are, Some with apsidal chancels, Some Perpendicular And schools by E.R. Robson In ...
In the licorice fields at Pontefract My love and I did meet And many a burdened licorice bush Was blooming ...
Cut down that timber! Bells, too many and strong, Pouring their music through the branches bare, From moon-white church towers ...
This is the time of day when we in the Mens's ward Think "one more surge of the pain and ...
Oh would I could subdue the flesh Which sadly troubles me! And then perhaps could view the flesh As though ...
Bird-watching colonels on the old sea wall, Down here at Dawlish where the slow trains crawl: Low tide lifting, on ...
Encase your legs in nylons, Bestride your hills with pylons O age without a soul; Away with gentle willows And ...
The sort of girl I like to see Smiles down from her great height at me. She stands in strong, ...
Gaily into Ruislip Gardens Runs the red electric train, With a thousand Ta's and Pardon's Daintily alights Elaine; Hurries down ...
I am a young executive. No cuffs than mine are cleaner; I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the ...
The heavy mahogany door with its wrought-iron screen Shuts. And the sound is rich, sympathetic, discreet. The sun still shines ...
I walked into the night-club in the morning; There was kummel on the handle of the door. The ashtrays were ...
The gas was on in the Institute, The flare was up in the gym, A man was running a mineral ...
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