There’s a feast undated, yet Both our true lives hold it fast,— Even the day when we first met. What a great day came and passed, —Unknown then, but known at last.

Home, home from the horizon far an… Hither the soft wings sweep; Flocks of the memories of the day… The dovecote doors of sleep. Oh which are they that come throug…

She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keep… She keeps them from the steep; She feeds them on the fragrant hei…

Your own fair youth, you care so l… Smiling toward Heaven, you would… Of time and change upon your hapie… I keep your golden hour, and will… If ever, in time to come, you woul…

Farewell to one now silenced quite… Sent out of hearing, out of sight,… My friend of friends, whom I shal… He is not banished, though, for th… Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight.

A poet of one mood in all my lays, Ranging all life to sing one only… Like a west wind across the world… Sweeping my harp of floods mine ow… The countries change, but not the…

O Spring, I know thee! Seek for… In the young children’s eyes. But I have learnt the years, and… Leaf-folded violet. Mine ear, awake to silence, can fo…

Farewell has long been said; I ha… I never name thee even. But how shall I learn virtues and… For thou art so near Heaven That Heavenward meditations pause…

We build with strength and deep to… That shall be shattered thus and t… And fair and great are court and h… But how fair—this is not for us, Who know the lack that lurks in al…

One wept whose only child was dead… New-born, ten years ago. “Weep not; he is in bliss,” they s… She answered, “Even so, ”Ten years ago was born in pain

On London fell a clearer light; Caressing pencils of the sun Defined the distances, the white Houses transfigured one by one, The 'long, unlovely street’ impear…

(I) PROMETHEUS 1- IT was the south: mid-everything, - Mid-land, mid-summer, noon ; -

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spri… Unseen, this colourless sky of fol… And folded winds; no blossom in th… A poet’s face asleep in this grey… Now in the midst of the old world…

The leaves are many under my feet, And drift one way. Their scent of death is weary and… A flight of them is in the grey Where sky and forest meet.