Her gown was simple woven wool, But, in repayment, Her body sweet made beautiful The simplest raiment: For all its fine, melodious curves

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;

He sat beneath the curling vines That round the gay verandah twined… His forehead seamed with sorrow’s… An old man with a weary mind. His young wife, with a rosy face

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…

When trees in Spring Are blossoming My lady wakes From dreams whose light Made dark days bright,

Soul of the leaping flame; Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name - Desire! Subtle art thou and strong;

IT MAY have been a fragment of t… Truth dreams, at times, disclose; It may have been to Fond Illusion… But thus the story goes: A fierce sun glared upon a gaunt l…

These broken lines for pardon crav… I cannot end the song with art: My grief is gray and old—her grave Is dug so deep within my heart. IT was a day of sombre heat:

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…

IN my garden, O Beloved! Many pleasant trees are growing, Peach, and apricot, and apple, Myrtle, lilac, and laburnum. Fair are they, but midst them lone…

A child came singing through the d… A song so sweet that all men staye… Forgetting for a space their ancie… Of evil days and death and fortune… She sang of Winter dead and Sprin…

CAMILLA calls me heartless: hen… Logic in love has little part. How can I otherwise than heartles… Seeing Camilla has my heart?

Tjere are three mighty Voices th… Cry out to God to speed His Judg… The Voice of Devils, weary long a… Of dragging souls to Everlasting… The Voice of Saints who hear, whi…

WHO are these strange small folk, These that come to our homes as ki… Asking nor leave nor grace, Bending our necks to their yoke, Taking the highest place,

Dedicated to Louis Becke You are now in London town, Louis Becke, Keeping up your old renown, Writing yarns of women brown,