CARE is a Poet fine: He works in shade or shine, And leaves—you know his sign!— No day without its line. He writes with iron pen

BY his side, whose days are past, Lay bow and quiver! And his eyes that stare aghast Close, with a shiver. God nor man from Death, at last,

I HAVE been dreaming all a summe… Of rare and dainty poems I would… Love-lyrics delicate as lilac-scen… Soft idylls woven of wind, and flo… And songs and sonnets carven in fi…

’TIS said that the Passion Flowe… With its figures of spear and swor… And hammer and nails, is a symbol Of the Woe of our Blessed Lord. So still in the Heart of Beauty

On a golden dawn in the dawn subli… Of years ere the stars had ceased… Beautiful out of the sea-deeps col… Aphrodite arose—the Flower of Tim… That, dear till the day of her blo…

OVER a slow-dying fire, Dreaming old dreams, I am sitting… The flames leap up and expire; A woman sits opposite knitting. I’ve taken a Fate to wife;

If I were young as you, Sixteen, And you were old as I, I would not be as I have been, You would not be so shy— We should not watch with careless…

The Narrow, thorny path he trod. “Enter into My joy,” said God. The sad ascetic shook his head; “I’ve lost all taste for joy,” he…

The waters make a music low: The river reeds Are trembling to the tunes of long… Dead days and deeds Become alive again, as on

HAVING certain cares to drown, To the sea I took them down: And I threw them in the wave, That engulfed them like a grave. Swiftly then I plied the oar

THE old dead flowers of bygone su… The old sweet songs that are no mo… The rose-red dawns that were welco… When you and I and the world were… Are lost, O love, to the light fo…

There is a town in Ireland, A little town I know; Its girls have tender Irish eyes Beneath their brows of snow; And in the field around it

Soul, dost thou shudder at the nar… Heart, dost thou dread to moulder… To meet the fate that all things m… Strength in its pride, and beauty… What have ye done to merit nobler…

Not only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world’s sad mart… Whose names are writ in blood. A woman lay in a hovel,

We said farewell, my youth and I, When all fair dreams were gone or… And Love’s red lips were cold and… When white blooms fell from tree-t… Our Austral winter’s way of snowi…