• William Wordsworth

    Lines Written in Early Spring

    I heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sat reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man. Through primrose…

  • George Wilson

    Jeunes Filles en Noir (Renoir)

    Two women, both in black, the widow’s veilis flung across one shoulder, cast aside.A child’s face where sorrow can’t prevail,those sloe-dark eyes more suited to a bride. The funeral past, she sheds no mourning tearas she surveys the seething cafe crowd.What does her confidante say in her ear?What secret that…

  • George Wilson

    On Reading a Shakespearean Sonnet

    He helps me keep alive those active cellsthat sometimes light the spark of thought anew,hoping that the cave where reason dwellsmight warm with feeling as it used to do. When thought and feeling fuse, just now and thenand blood rejuvenates the numbing brainthe ageing world regains its glory whenlight and…

  • William Wordsworth

    The Rainbow

    My heart leaps up when I beholdA Rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die!The Child is father of the man;And I wish my days to beBound each to each by…

  • John Keats

    There was a naughty boy

    There was a naughty boy,And a naughty boy was he,He ran away to ScotlandThe people for to see-There he foundThat the groundWas as hard,That a yardWas as long,That a songWas as merry,That a cherryWas as red,That leadWas as weighty,That fourscoreWas as eighty,That a doorWas as woodenAs in England-So he stood…

  • Alfred Lord Tennyson

    Come not when I am dead

    Come not, when I am dead,To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,To trample round my fallen head,And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crimeI care no longer, being…

  • Uncategorized

    L’Homme Qu’Il A Tué

    Thomas Hardy  (1840 – 1928) « Si seulement nous nous étions rencontrésPrès de quelque vieille auberge,Nous nous serions assis pour prendre ensembleQuelques petits verres ! « Mais en position de fantassin,Nous observant face à face,J’ai tiré sur lui, lui sur moi,Et je l’ai tué net. « Je l’ai abattu parce que –Parce que c’était…