Every Day Poems
The Letter by Amy Lowell Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly’s legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns, And this…
Conversation Galante by T. S. Eliot I observe: “Our sentimental friend the moon! Or possibly (fantastic, I confess) It may be Prester John’s balloon Or an old battered lantern hung aloft To light poor travellers to their distress.” She then: “How you digress!” And I then: “Some one frames upon the keys That exquisite nocturne,…
Drinking Alone in the Moonlight by Li Po (or Li Bai) Under the flowering trees, with a bottle of wine, I drink alone, for no friend is near. Raising my cup I call the bright moon, For he, with my shadow, make us three. The moon is no drinker of wine; Listless, my shadow only…
According to his own biography, William H. Davies was born in a public-house called Church House at Newport, in the County of Monmouthshire, April 20, 1870, of Welsh parents. He was, until Bernard Shaw “discovered” him, a cattleman, a berry-picker, a panhandler?in short, a vagabond. In a preface to Davies’ second book, The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp (1906)