In London city was Bicham born, He longd strange countries for to… But he was taen by a savage Moor, Who handld him right cruely. For thro his shoulder he put a bor…

AS one that for a weary space has… Lull’d by the song of Circe and h… In gardens near the pale of Prose… Where that Aeaean isle forgets th… And only the low lutes of love com…

For thee soft crowns in thine untr… I wove, my lady, and to thee I be… Thither no shepherd drives his flo… Nor scythe of steel has ever labou… Nay, through the spring among the…

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees, An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes

“The Ancestor remote of Man,” Says Darwin, “is th’ Ascidian,” A scanty sort of water-beast That, ninety million years at leas… Before Gorillas came to be,

On these Nysæan shores divine The clusters ripen in a day. At dawn the blossom shreds away; The berried grapes are green and f… And full by noon; in day’s decline

Friend, when you bear a care-dulle… And brow perplexed with things of… And fain would bid some charm unti… The bonds that hold you all too st… Behold a solace to your fate,

‘O wha will shoe my fu’ fair foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will lace my middle jimp, Wi’ the new-made London band? ‘And wha will kaim my yellow hair,

(Clement Marot’s Frère Lubin, th… Some ten or twenty times a day, To bustle to the town with speed, To dabble in what dirt he may,— Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need…

The winter is upon us, not the sno… The hills are etched on the horizo… The skies are iron grey, a bitter… The meagre cloudlets shudder to an… One yellow leaf the listless wind…

Alas, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed, For these the grave has lost his s… Alas, for us no second spring, Who sleep without awakening,

Hither, come hither, ye Clouds re… Come, though ye dwell on the sacre… Or whether ye dance with the Nere… Or whether your golden urns are di… Or whether you dwell by Mæotis me…

Swift as sound of music fled When no more the organ sighs, Sped as all old days are sped, So your lips, love, and your eyes, So your gentle-voiced replies

In the Aves of Aristophanes, the Bird Chorus declare that they are older than the Gods, and greater benefactors of men. This idea recurs in almost all savage mythologies, and I have ma...

Between the moonlight and the fire In winter twilights long ago, What ghosts we raised for your des… To make your merry blood run slow! How old, how grave, how wise we gr…