The hills hang woods around, where… Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees… Crisp with the brittle hulls of la… The water hums one bar there; and… Of gold lies steady where the trai…

Masks Death rides black-masked to-night;… Madness beside him brandishes a to… The peaceful farmhouse with its vi… Lies in their way. Death lifts a…

Can one resolve and hunt it from o… This love, this god and fiend, tha… Of many a life, in ways no tongue… No mind divine, nor any word impar… Would not one think the slights th…

I found myself among the trees What time the reapers ceased to re… And in the sunflower-blooms the be… Huddled brown heads and went to sl… Rocked by the balsam-breathing bre…

There is a field, that leans upon… Foamed o’er of flowers and twinkli… That in its girdle of wild acres b… The anodyne of rest that cures all… Wherein soft wind and sun and soun…

Oh, Mignon’s mouth is like a rose… A red, red rose, that half uncurls Sweet petals o’er a crimson bee: Or like a shell, that, opening, sh… Within its rosy curve white pearls…

Blood-Coloured oaks, that stand a… Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak l… And broom-sedge strips of smoky-pi… In which, beneath the ragged sky,… From West to East, from wood to w…

Spare us our Dreams, O God! The… When we were children and dwelt ne… Of Faery, which our Childhood oft… To reach, beholding where its towe… The dream our Youth put seaward w…

All who have toiled for Art, who’… Sat equal priests at her high Pen… Only the chrism and sacrament of f… Anointing all, inspired not all th…

When down the west the new moon sl… A curved canoe that dipped and tip… When from the rose the dewdropp dr… As if it shed its heart’s blood sl… As softly silent as a star

Clouds of the autumn night, Under the hunter’s moon, Ghostly and windy white, Whither, like leaves wild strewn, Take ye your stormy flight?

Let us mix a cup of Joy That the wretched may employ, Whom the Fates have made their to… Who have given brain and heart To the thankless world of Art,

Sweet lies! the sweetest ever hear… To her he said: Her heart remembers every word Now he is dead. I ask:' If thus his lies can make

To it the forest tells The mystery that haunts its heart… Its form in cogitation deep, that… The shadow of each myth that dwell… In nature be it Nymph or Fay or…

There was once a little boy— So my father told me—who Never cared for any toy, But just sweet things, as boys do, Cakes and comfits, cream and ice,