Out in the sun the goldfinch flits Along the thistle-tops, flits and… Above the hollow wood Where birds swim like fish - Fish that laugh and shriek -

After you speak And what you meant Is plain, My eyes Meet yours that mean,

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but t… On this bleak hut, and solitude, a… Remembering again that I shall di… And neither hear the rain nor give… For washing me cleaner than I hav…

Thinking of her had saddened me at… Until I saw the sun on the celand… Redoubled, and she stood up like a… A living thing, not what before I… The shadow I was growing to love…

THE long small room that showed w… Narrowed up to the end the firepla… Although not wide. I liked it. No… What need or accident made them so… Only the moon, the mouse, and the…

Women he liked, did shovel-bearded… Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath,… Loved horses. He himself was like… And leather-coloured. Also he lov… For the life in them he loved most…

The downs will lose the sun, white… Lose the bees’ hum; But head and bottle tilted back in… Will never part Till I am cold as midnight and al…

Often I had gone this way before But now it seemed I never could b… And never had been anywhere else; ’Twas home; one nationality We had, I and the birds that sang…

I never had noticed it until ’Twas gone, - the narrow copse Where now the woodman lops The last of the willows with his b… It was not more than a hedge overg…

At hawthorn-time in Wiltshire tra… In search of something chance woul… An old man’s face, by life and wea… And coloured, - rough, brown, swee… A land face, sea-blue-eyed, - hung…

The skylarks are far behind that s… I can hear no more those suburb ni… Thrushes and blackbirds sing in th… In vain: the noise of man, beast,… But the call of children in the un…

f I were to own this countryside As far as a man in a day could rid… And the Tyes were mine for giving… Wingle Tye and Margaretting Tye, - and Skreens, Gooshays, and…

WHEN first I came here I had ho… Hope for I knew not what. Fast be… My heart at the sight of the tall… Or grass and yews, as if my feet Only by scaling its steps of chalk

The sorrow of true love is a great… And true love parting blackens a b… Yet almost they equal joys, since… Is but hope blinded by its tears,… Above the storm the heavens wait t…

She is most fair, And when they see her pass The poets’ ladies Look no more in the glass But after her.