Lascelles Abercrombie (also known as the Georgian Laureate, linking him with the "Georgian poets") was a British poet and literary critic, one of the "Dymock poets". He was born in Ashton upon Mersey and educated at the University of Manchester.
Before the First World War, he lived for a time at Dymock in Gloucestershire, part of a community that included Rupert Brooke and Robert Frost. Edward Thomas also visited. In 1922, he was appointed Professor of English at the University of Leeds. In 1929 he moved on to the University of London, and in 1935 to a prestigious readership at Oxford University. He wrote a series of works on the nature of poetry, and several ... more »
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Lascelles Abercrombie Poems
Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye, Around about the wondrous days of yore, They came across a kind of box Bound up with chains and locked with locks
Hymn to Love
We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee, As théou, Léove, were the déep thought And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we, Thy fires of thought out-spoken:
WHAT thing shall be held up to woman's beauty? Where are the bounds of it? Yea, what is all The world, but an awning scaffolded amid The waste perilous Eternity, to lodge
Emblems of Love
She ONLY to be twin elements of joy In this extravagance of Being, Love,
The Sale of Saint Thomas
Thomas To India! Yea, here I may take ship; From here the courses go over the seas, Along which the intent prows wonderfully Nose like lean hounds, and tack their journeys out,
ir, you shall notice me: I am the Man; I am Good Fortune: I am satisfied. All I desired, more than I could desire,
Song from Judith 3
BALKIS was in her marble town, And shadow over the world came down. Whiteness of walls, towers and piers, That all day dazzled eyes to tears,
The Dream All round the knoll, on days of quietest air, Secrets are being told; and if the trees
Witchcraft: New Style
The sun drew off at last his piercing fires. Over the stale warm air, dull as a pond And moveless in the grey quieted street,
The Stream’s Song
Make way, make way, You thwarting stones; Room for my play, Serious ones.
Too soothe and mild your lowland airs for one whose hope is gone: I'm think of the little tarn, Brown, very lone.
Hope and Despair
Said God, 'You sisters, ere ye go Down among men, my work to do, I will on each a badge bestow: Hope I love best, and gold for her,
Roses Can Wound
Roses can wound, But not from having thorns they do most harm; Often the night gives, starry-sheen or moon'd, Deep in the soul alarm.
Comments about Lascelles Abercrombie
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
Around about the wondrous days of yore,
They came across a kind of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled 'Kindly do not touch; it's war.'
A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout
And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before.
Don't fiddle with this deadly box,Or break the chains, or pick the locks.
And please don't ever play about with war.
The children understood. Children happen to be good
And they were just as good around the time of yore.