James Elroy Flecker
James Elroy Flecker (5 November 1884 - 3 January 1915) was an English poet, novelist and playwright. As a poet he was most influenced by the Parnassian poets.
He was born in London, and baptised Herman Elroy Flecker, later choosing to use the first name "James", either because he disliked the name "Herman" or to avoid confusion with his father. "Roy", as he... more »
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James Elroy Flecker Poems
The Golden Journey To Samarkand
We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, We Poets of the proud old lineage Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why, -
To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence
I who am dead a thousand years, And wrote this sweet archaic song, Send you my words for messengers The way I shall not pass along.
The Gates of Damascus
Four great gates has the city of Damascus And four Great Wardens, on their spears reclining, All day long stand like tall stone men
The Old Ships
I have seen old ships like swans asleep Beyond the village which men call Tyre, With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep For Famagusta and the hidden sun
The War Songs of the Saracens
We are they who come faster than fate: We are they who ride early or late: We storm at your ivory gate: Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware!
Yasmin (A Ghazel)
How splendid in the morning grows the lily: with what grace he throws His supplication to the rose: do roses nod the head, Yasmin?
A Ship, An Isle, A Sickle Moon
A Ship, an isle, a sickle moon- With few but with how splendid stars The mirrors of the sea are strewn Between their silver bars!
When the words rustle no more, And the last work's done, When the bolt lies deep in the door, And Fire, our Sun,
Smile then, children, hand in hand Bright and white as the summer snow, Or that young King of the Grecian land,
Hialmar speaks to the Raven: From Lecont...
Night on the bloodstained snow: the wind is chill: And there a thousand tombless warriors lie,
The Ballad of Iskander
Aflatun and Aristu and King Iskander Are Plato, Aristotle, Alexander. Sultan Iskander sat him down On his golden throne, in his golden crown,
The Second Sonnet of Bathrolaire
Now the sweet Dawn on brighter fields afar Has walked among the daisies, and has breathed The glory of the mountain winds, and sheathed
How splendid in the morning glows the lily; with what grace he throws His supplication to the rose: do roses nod the head, Yasmin?
The Dying Patriot
DAY breaks on England down the Kentish hills, Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, Day of my dreams, O day!
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Golden Journey To Samarkand
We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage
And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die,
We Poets of the proud old lineage
Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why, -
What shall we tell you? Tales, marvellous tales
Of ships and stars and isles where good men rest,
Where nevermore the rose of sunset pales,
And winds and shadows fall towards the West:
And there the world's first huge white-bearded kings
In dim glades sleeping, murmur in their sleep,
And closer round their breasts the ivy clings,
Cutting its pathway slow and...