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From Piccadilly In August Post by :jallenmorris Category :Poems Author :John Freeman Date :September 2011 Read :2736

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From Piccadilly In August

Now the trees rest: the moon has taught them sleep,
Like drowsy wings of bats are all their leaves,
Clinging together. Girls at ease who fold
Fair hands upon white necks and through dusk fields
Walk all content,--of them the trees have taken
Their way of evening rest; the yellow moon
With her pale gold has lit their dreams that lisp
On the wind's murmuring lips.
And low beyond
Burn those bright lamps beneath the moon more bright,
Lamps that but flash and sparkle and light not
The inward eye and musing thought, nor reach
Where, poplar-like, that tall-built campanile
Lifts to the neighbouring moon her head and feels
The pale gold like an ocean laving her.

(The end)
John Freeman's poem: From Piccadilly In August

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Evening Beauty: Blackfriars Evening Beauty: Blackfriars

Evening Beauty: Blackfriars
Nought is but beauty weareth, near and far, Under the pale, blue sky and lonely star. This is that quick hour when the city turns Her troubled harsh distortion and blind care Into brief loveliness seen everywhere,While in the fuming west the low sun smouldering burns. Not brick nor marble the rich beauty owns, Not this is held in starward-pointing stones. Sun, wind and smoke the threefold magic stir, Kissing each favourless poor ruin with kiss Like that when lovers lovers lure to bliss,And earth than towered heaven awhile is heavenlier.

England's Enemy England's Enemy

England's Enemy
She stands like one with mazy cares distraught.Around her sudden angry storm-clouds rise,Dark, dark! and comes the look into her eyesOf eld. All that herself herself hath taughtShe cons anew, that courage new be caughtOf courage old. Yet comfortless still liesSnake-like in her warm bosom (vexed with sighs)Fear of the greatness that herself hath wrought.No glory but her memory teems with it,No beauty that's not hers; more nobly noneOf all her sisters runs with her; but sheFor her old destiny dreams herself unfit,And fumbling at the future doubtfullyMuses how Rome of Romans was undone.(The end)John Freeman's poem: England's Enemy