Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me…
Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. His raincoat is there in the…
To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings…
The leaves are falling, falling as from far, As if far gardens in the skies were dying; They fall, and…
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine Et nos amours Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne La joie venait toujours après la…
I used to think that grown-up people chose To have stiff backs and wrinkles round their nose, And veins like…
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen, cold, Exhausted face? It…
The spirit is too blunt an instrument to have made this baby. Nothing so unskilful as human passions could have…
I have seen the sun break through to illuminate a small field for a while, and gone my way and…
When all’s said, and done, if civilisation drowns the last colour to go will be gold – the light on a glass, the prow of a gondola, the name on a rosewood piano as silence engulfs it. And first to return to a waterlogged world, the rivers slipping out to sea, the cities steaming, will be gold, one dip from Bellini’s brush, feathers of angels, Cinquecente nativities, and all that follows. (more…)