from: Black Combe White (Norman Nicholson Poems)
Sixty mile back,Edging the ooze of the estuary mosses - sheepOne side on fire from the level sun; hedgesClinkering ginger; ...
Sixty mile back,Edging the ooze of the estuary mosses - sheepOne side on fire from the level sun; hedgesClinkering ginger; ...
There are places in Wales I don't go:Reservoirs that are the subconciousOf a people, troubled far downWith gravestones, chapels, villages ...
We the fairies blithe and antic,Of Dimensions not gigantic,Though the moonshine mostly keep us,Oft in orchards frisk and peep us,Stolen ...
I.The times are changed, and gone the dayWhen the high heavenly land,Though unbeheld, quite near them lay,And men could understand.The ...
SEATED in a Moorish garden On the Sahel of Algiers, Wandering breezes brought the burden Of its history in past ...
Turn out, boys! — "What's up with our super. to-night? The man's mad — Two hours to daybreak I'd swear ...
SHEPHERD Not the blue-fountained Florida hotel, Bell-capped, bellevued, straight-jacketed and decked With chromium palms and a fromage of moon, Not ...
I wish that the May Term were over, That its wearisome pleasures were o'er, And I were reclining in ...
Long as unending threads, the long-drawn rainInterminably, with its nails of grey, Athwart the dull grey day, Rakes ...
In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, Cool-breathed waters dip and dally, linger towards another day- Far ...
IT shifts and shifts from form to form, It drifts and darkles, gleams and glows; It is the passion of ...
November days in Ireland The skies are dull and grey,But Oh! The clear strong flame of love, That burns by ...
Once again in thy meadows of Christ Church, Through thy chapels and gardens again I walk as of old, while ...
On the day of the explosion Shadows pointed towards the pithead. In the sun the slagheap slept. Down the lane ...
We, the Fairies, blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep us, Oft in orchards frisk ...
Oh, how I love Humanity, With love so pure and pringlish, And how I hate the horrid French, Who never ...
Those moments, tasted once and never done, Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun. A far-off blow-hole booming like ...
FY, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin' there; For Murray's light horse are to muster, And ...
Poem by Anne-Marie Derése, translated by Judith Skillman. Forgive me if I have laughed in your chapels, forgive me if ...
It was my thirtieth year to heaven Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood And the mussel pooled ...
The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering Head alone shows you in the prodigious act Of digesting what centuries alone digest: ...
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