The youngest poet down the shelves… In a dim library, just behind the… From which the ancient poet was mu… A song about some Lovers at a Fai… Pulling his long white beard and g…

Oh, what a heavy sigh! Dicky, are you ailing? Even by this fireside, mother, My heart is failing. To—night across the down,

Are they blind, the lords of Gaza In their strong towers, Who declare Samson pillow—smother… And stripped of his powers? O stolid Philistines,

“Is that the Three—and—Twentieth,… Marching below, and we still gulpi… From the sad magic of his fragrant… The red—faced old centurion starte… Cursed, battered on the table. “N…

Yet once an earlier David took Smooth pebbles from the brook: Out between the lines he went To that one—sided tournament, A shepherd boy who stood out fine

This valley wood is pledged To the set shape of things, And reasonably hedged: Here are no harpies fledged, No rocs may clap their wings,

Children born of fairy stock Never need for shirt or frock, Never want for food or fire, Always get their hearts desire: Jingle pockets full of gold,

he child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, And all’s poetry with him. Rhyme and music flow in plenty

Frowning over the riddle that Dan… Down through the mist hung garden,… The King of Persia walked: oh, th… His mind was webbed with a grey sh… Here for the pride of his soaring…

Under your Milky Way And slow—revolving Bear Frogs from the alder thicket pray In terror of your judgement day, Loud with repentance there.

Take now a country mood, Resolve, distil it: — Nine Acre swaying alive, June flowers that fill it, Spicy sweet—briar bush,

With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return.

Here is this patchwork quilt I’ve… Of patterned silks and old brocade… Small faded rags in memory rich Sewn each to each with feather sti… But if you stare aghast perhaps

Here in turn succeed and rule Carter, smith, and village fool, Then again the place is known As tavern, shop, and Sunday—schoo… Now somehow it’s come to me