NOT with slow, funereal sound Come we to this sacred ground; Not with wailing fife and solemn m… Bringing a cypress wreath To lay, with bended knee,

To spring belongs the violet, and… Spice of the roses let the summer… Grant me this favor, Muse—all els… That I may not write verse when I… And yet I pray you, Muse, delay t…

When I behold what pleasure is pu… What life, what glorious eagerness… Then mark how full possession fall… How fairer seems the blossom than… I am perplexed, and often stricken…

Take these rhymes into thy grace, Since they are of thy begetting, Lady, that dost make each place Where thou art a jewel’s setting. Some such glamour lend this Book;

Not in the fabled influence of som… Benign or evil, do our fortunes li… We are the arbiters of destiny, Lords of the life we either make o… We are our own impediment and bar

GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720 The wind it wailed, the wind it mo… And the white caps flecked the sea… “An’ I would to God,” the skipper… “I had not my boy with me!

Forever am I conscious, moving he… That should I step a little space… I pass the boundary of some glorif… Invisible domain—it lies so near! Yet nothing know we of that dim fr…

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL,… I held his letter in my hand, And even while I read The lightning flashed across the l… The word that he was dead.

I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, and sound win… The Roederer chilly to a charm, As Juno’s breath the claret warm, The sherry of an ancient brand.

Who can say where Echo dwells? In some mountain-cave, methinks, Where the white owl sits and blink… Or in deep sequestered dells, Where foxglove hangs its bells,

[MIDNIGHT.] First, two white arms that held hi… And ever closer as he drew him bac… Reluctantly, the loose gold-colore… A thousand delicate fibers reachin…

Like Crusoe, walking by the lonel… And seeing a human footprint on th… Have I this day been startled, fi… Set in brown mould, and delicately… Spring’s footprint—the first crocu…

The folk who lived in Shakespeare… And saw that gentle figure pass By London Bridge, his frequent wa… They little knew what man he was. The pointed beard, the courteous m…

Not of desire alone is music born, Not till the Muse wills is our pa… Unsought she comes; if sought, but… Repaying thus our longing with her… Hence is it poets often are forlor…