Give me the lifted skirt, And the brave ways of wrong, The fist, the dagger and the sword… And the out-spoken song. Ah! bring me not the love

The solemn light behind the barns, The rising moon, the cricket’s cal… The August night, and you and I - What is the meaning of it all! Has it a meaning, after all?

‘Is she still beautiful?’ I asked… Who of the unforgotten faces told That for long years I had not loo… ‘Beautiful still-but she is growin… And for a space I sorrowed, think…

Summer gone, Winter here; Ways are white, Skies are clear. And the sun

Ah! did you ever hear the Spring Calling you through the snow, Or hear the little blackbird sing Inside its egg-or go To that green land where grass beg…

(TO I——a) When rumour fain would fright my e… With the destruction and decay Of things familiar and dear, And vaunt of a swift-running day

_Illius est nobis lege colendus am… On her own terms, O lover, must t… The heart’s beloved: be she kind,… Cruel, expect no more; not for thy… But for the fire in thee that melt…

Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we may, how wise is love— Love grown old and grey with years… Love whose blood is thinned with t… Philosophic lover I,

Winter that hath few friends yet n… Of spirit erect and delicate of ey… All may applaud sweet Summer, wit… And Autumn, with her banners in t… But when from the earth’s cheek th…

A little book, this grim November… Wherein, O tired heart, to creep… Come drink this wine and wear this… Nor heed the world, nor what the w… A thousand gardens-yet to-day ther…

Alone! once more alone! how like a… My little parlour sounds which onl… Yearned like some holy chancel wit… So still! so empty! Surely one mi… The walls should meet in ruinous c…

The Cry of the Little Peoples we… The Czech and the Pole, and the… We ask but a little portion of the… Only to sow and sing and reap in t… We ask not coaling stations, nor p…

How fast the year is going by! Love, it will be September soon; O let us make the best of June. Already, love, it is July; The rose and honeysuckle go,

Nature, that makes Professors all… And, filling idle souls with idle… Turns out small Poets every other… Made earth for men—but seldom puts… Ah, Minto, thou of that minority

Above the town a monstrous wheel i… With glowing spokes of red, Low in the west its fiery axle bur… And, lost amid the spaces overhead… A vague white moth, the moon, is f…