T. W. EARP(EXETER)THE CANALWhenyou're tired of books and the dusty, well-known roomIt's good to put on a gown and go for a walk,Taking deep breaths and smelling the hawthorn bloomBy the canal, where shadowy lovers talk.They are far too happy to care if anyone passes,And you envy a little, as you go along,Those happy lovers of the lower classesWhose emotions are like the rhythm of a rag-time song.The breath of the summer night is about your head,Burdened with fragrance, lulling the brain to sleep,You begin to forget the dull things you have read,And just go walking on and breathing deep.SOLITUDETheyhave been sitting here until eleven,The loud and the quiet and the one who is never shocked,And we talked of most of the things between hell and heaven,But now the last friend has gone and the door is locked.And I cannot help feeling, though it's rather silly,A little afraid to be left so quiet and alone;I can hear a petal drop from the tiger-lily,So complete and awful has the silence grown.I long to hear that tramp of the policeman'sOutside the shutters, but the night is dumb,And in a state of tension unknown to HuysmansI wait and wait for the sound that will not come.
T. W. EARP(EXETER)
T. W. EARP(EXETER)
Whenyou're tired of books and the dusty, well-known roomIt's good to put on a gown and go for a walk,Taking deep breaths and smelling the hawthorn bloomBy the canal, where shadowy lovers talk.They are far too happy to care if anyone passes,And you envy a little, as you go along,Those happy lovers of the lower classesWhose emotions are like the rhythm of a rag-time song.The breath of the summer night is about your head,Burdened with fragrance, lulling the brain to sleep,You begin to forget the dull things you have read,And just go walking on and breathing deep.
Whenyou're tired of books and the dusty, well-known roomIt's good to put on a gown and go for a walk,Taking deep breaths and smelling the hawthorn bloomBy the canal, where shadowy lovers talk.They are far too happy to care if anyone passes,And you envy a little, as you go along,Those happy lovers of the lower classesWhose emotions are like the rhythm of a rag-time song.The breath of the summer night is about your head,Burdened with fragrance, lulling the brain to sleep,You begin to forget the dull things you have read,And just go walking on and breathing deep.
Whenyou're tired of books and the dusty, well-known roomIt's good to put on a gown and go for a walk,Taking deep breaths and smelling the hawthorn bloomBy the canal, where shadowy lovers talk.
Whenyou're tired of books and the dusty, well-known room
It's good to put on a gown and go for a walk,
Taking deep breaths and smelling the hawthorn bloom
By the canal, where shadowy lovers talk.
They are far too happy to care if anyone passes,And you envy a little, as you go along,Those happy lovers of the lower classesWhose emotions are like the rhythm of a rag-time song.
They are far too happy to care if anyone passes,
And you envy a little, as you go along,
Those happy lovers of the lower classes
Whose emotions are like the rhythm of a rag-time song.
The breath of the summer night is about your head,Burdened with fragrance, lulling the brain to sleep,You begin to forget the dull things you have read,And just go walking on and breathing deep.
The breath of the summer night is about your head,
Burdened with fragrance, lulling the brain to sleep,
You begin to forget the dull things you have read,
And just go walking on and breathing deep.
Theyhave been sitting here until eleven,The loud and the quiet and the one who is never shocked,And we talked of most of the things between hell and heaven,But now the last friend has gone and the door is locked.And I cannot help feeling, though it's rather silly,A little afraid to be left so quiet and alone;I can hear a petal drop from the tiger-lily,So complete and awful has the silence grown.I long to hear that tramp of the policeman'sOutside the shutters, but the night is dumb,And in a state of tension unknown to HuysmansI wait and wait for the sound that will not come.
Theyhave been sitting here until eleven,The loud and the quiet and the one who is never shocked,And we talked of most of the things between hell and heaven,But now the last friend has gone and the door is locked.And I cannot help feeling, though it's rather silly,A little afraid to be left so quiet and alone;I can hear a petal drop from the tiger-lily,So complete and awful has the silence grown.I long to hear that tramp of the policeman'sOutside the shutters, but the night is dumb,And in a state of tension unknown to HuysmansI wait and wait for the sound that will not come.
Theyhave been sitting here until eleven,The loud and the quiet and the one who is never shocked,And we talked of most of the things between hell and heaven,But now the last friend has gone and the door is locked.
Theyhave been sitting here until eleven,
The loud and the quiet and the one who is never shocked,
And we talked of most of the things between hell and heaven,
But now the last friend has gone and the door is locked.
And I cannot help feeling, though it's rather silly,A little afraid to be left so quiet and alone;I can hear a petal drop from the tiger-lily,So complete and awful has the silence grown.
And I cannot help feeling, though it's rather silly,
A little afraid to be left so quiet and alone;
I can hear a petal drop from the tiger-lily,
So complete and awful has the silence grown.
I long to hear that tramp of the policeman'sOutside the shutters, but the night is dumb,And in a state of tension unknown to HuysmansI wait and wait for the sound that will not come.
I long to hear that tramp of the policeman's
Outside the shutters, but the night is dumb,
And in a state of tension unknown to Huysmans
I wait and wait for the sound that will not come.