From William Wordsworth, “Goody Blake and Harry Gill”:
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.
From Charles Wesley, “On the Sight of a Corpse”:
Ah lovely appearance of Death!
What sight upon earth is so fair?
Not all the gay pageants that breathe
Can with a dead body compare.
From Richard Le Gallienne, “Beauty Accurst”:
The sleepy kine move round me in desire
And press their oozy lips upon my hair,
Toads kiss my feet and creatures of the mire,
The snails will leave their shells to watch me there.
From John Scott of Amwell, “To a Friend, Apprehensive of Declining Friendship”:
Too much in man’s imperfect state
Mistake produces useless pain.–
Methinks, of friendship’s frequent fate
I hear my Frogley’s voice complain.
From Isaac Watts, “On the Sudden Death of Mrs. Mary Peacock”:
Hark! she bids all her friends adieu;
Some angel calls her to the spheres;
Our eyes the radiant saint pursue
Through liquid telescopes of tears.
In The Stuffed Owl, D. B. Wyndham Lewis quotes this anonymous verse:
I always knew what sort of weather
We were going to have,
For Cynthia never wore her feather
When the weather would be bad.
But when the days were warm and bright
Cynthia wore a feather,
Sometimes black and sometimes white,
The colour doesn’t count whatever.
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