Sir John Betjeman

Sir John Betjeman

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Sir John Betjeman CBE (/ˈbɛtʃəmən/; 28 August 1906 – 19 May 1984) was an English poet, writer, and broadcaster. He was Poet Laureate from 1972 until his death.
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The Plansters Vision

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Cut down that timber
Bells, too many and strong,
Pouring their music through the branches bare,
From moon-white church-towers down the windy
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The Irish Unionists Farewell To Greta Hellastrom In 1922

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Golden haired and golden heartedI would ever have you be,
As you were when last we
Smiling slow and sad at me
Oh
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Ireland With Emily

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Bells are booming down the bohreens,
White the mist along the grass,
Now the Julias,
Maeves and
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Harrow-On-The-Hill

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When melancholy Autumn comes to
And electric trains are lighted after
The poplars near the stadium are
With their tap and tap and whispering to me,
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Diary Of A Church Mouse

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Here among long-discarded cassocks,
Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks,
Here where the vicar never looksI nibble through old service books
Lean and alone I spend my
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Myfanwy

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Kind o’er the kinderbank leans my Myfanwy,
White o’er the playpen the sheen of her dress,
Fresh from the bathroom and soft in the
Soap scented fingers I long to caress
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South London Sketch

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From Bermondsey to
So many churches are,
Some with apsidal chancels,
Some
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Executive

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I am a young executive
No cuffs than mine are cleaner;
I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the firm's Cortina
In every roadside hostelry from here to Burgess
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Meditation On The A30

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A man on his own in a
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He open the throttle and bubbles with
And puffs at his pitiful
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Winter Seascape

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The sea runs back against
With scarcely time for breaking
To cannonade a slatey
And thunder under in a cave
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Trebetherick

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We used to picnic where the
Grew deep and tufted to the edge;
We saw the yellow foam flakes
In trembling sponges on the
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Slough

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Come, friendly bombs, and fall on
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a
Swarm over,
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Loneliness

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The last year's leaves are on the beech:
The twigs are black; the cold is dry;
To deeps beyond the deepest
The Easter bells enlarge the sky
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Felixstowe Or The Last Of Her Order

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With one consuming roar along the
The long wave claws and rakes the pebbles
To where its backwash and the next wave mingle,
A mounting arch of water
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How To Get On In Society

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Phone for the fish knives,
As cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the
And I must have things daintily served
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Middlesex

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Gaily into Ruislip
Runs the red electric train,
With a thousand Ta's and
Daintily alights Elaine;
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