Poems by James Thomson (BV)

also known as: Bysshe Vanolis
James B.V. Thomson

Sorted by title, showing title and first line

"While the trees grow,
What would you have? said I;1
The church stands there beyond the orchard-blooms:
Would some little joy to-day
My thoughts go back to last July,
The Pilgrimage To Kevlaar.
For I must sing of all I feel and know,
From the midst of the fire I fling
We were now in the midmost Maytime, in the full green flood of the Spring,
This field of stones, he said,
“ Ceste insigne fable et tragicque comedie.”
As we rush, as we rush in the Train,
Sleepless himself to give to others sleep.
In the early morning-shine
To Alice and Hypatia Bradlaugh
Last evening's huge lax clouds of turbid white
Who has a thing to bring
In the endless nights, from my bed, where sleepless in anguish I lie,
Mr. MacCall at Cleveland Hall,
He cried out through the night:
What are these leaves dark-spotted and acerb?
Once in a saintly passion
He felt scant need
"The Nightingale was not yet heard,
“En allant promener aux champs,
Eastwards through busy streets I lingered on;
“Per me si va nella città dolente.”
From out the house I crept,
The fire that filled my heart of old
“Arcane danze
Love on the earth alit,
Through foulest fogs of my own sluggish soul,
I saw thee once, I see thee now;
When one is forty years and seven,
“Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.”
Their eyes met; flashed an instant like swift swords
She was so good, and he was so bad
He came to the desert of London town