Fair islands of the silver fleece, Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold… Whose havens are the haunts of Pe… Whose boys are in our quarrel bold… OUR bolt is shot, our tale is tol…

Lord Thomas and Fair Annet Sate a’ day on a hill; Whan night was cum, and sun was se… They had not talkt their fill. Lord Thomas said a word in jest,

‘Why does your brand sae drop wi’… Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi’ b… And why sae sad gang ye, O?’ ‘O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,

Returning from what other seas Dost thou renew thy murmuring, Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of… To tell, the shores where float an… My love, my hope, my memories?

This morning I vowed I would brin… They were thrust in the band that… But the breast-knots were broken,… The breast-knots were broken; the… Floated forth on the wings of the…

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…

The modish Airs, The Tansey Brew, The SWAINS and FAIRS In curtained Pew; Nymphs KNELLER drew,

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…

Mid April seemed like some Novemb… When through the glassy waters, du… Our boat, like shadowy barques tha… Slipped down the long shores of th… Rounded a point,—and San Terenzo…

There lived a king in southern lan… King Edward hight his name; Unwordily he wore the crown, Till fifty years were gane. He had a sister’s son o’s ain,

Rome does right well to censure al… Talk of Jansenius, and of them wh… That earthly joys are damnable! ’… We need not charge at Heaven as a… No, amble on! We’ll gain it, one…

HAD cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne’er a thorn, No man would be a funker Of whin, or burn, or bunker. There were no need for mashies,

In torrid heats of late July, In March, beneath the bitter bise… He book-hunts while the loungers f… He book-hunts, though December fr… In breeches baggy at the knees,

Far in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor, A Child with books upon his knee, Who asks, like Oliver, for more! The number of his years is IV,

The hours are passing slow, I hear their weary tread Clang from the tower, and go Back to their kinsfolk dead. Sleep! death’s twin brother dread!