A flickering light near spent Her pale hand bore. Have you seen Angelique? Will she know the place Dead feet must find,

Little my lacking fortunes show For this to eat and that to wear; Yet laughing, Soul, and gaily go! An obol pays the Stygian fare. London, 1910

THE old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that… Should weep?

‘WHY do You thus devise Evil against her?’ ‘For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore.’

Is it as plainly in our living sho… By slant and twist, which way the…

You nor I nor nobody knows Where our daily-taken breath Vanisheth and vanisheth: Where our lost breath’s flying goe… You nor I nor nobody knows.

Grey gaolers are my griefs That will not let me free; The bitterness of tears Is warder unto me. I may not leap or run;

The morning is new and the skies a… The day cometh in with the sun and… Hasten, belov’ed! For see, while you were yet sleepi… The cool and virgin feet of dawn w…

I make my shroud, but no one knows… So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows… In door-way where the lilac blows,

I have no heart for noon-tide and… But I will take me where more ten… Shakes, fold on fold, her dewy dar… And shelters me that I may weep i… And feel no pitying eyes, and hear…

White doves of Cytherea, by your… Across the blue Heaven’s bluest h… And by your certain homing to Lov… Still to be true and ever true -…

I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.

‘Boy, lying Where the long grass Edges the pool’s brim, What do you watch There in the water? The blue

All day, all day I brush My golden strands of hair; All day I wait and wait.. Ah, who is there? Who calls? Who calls? The gold

Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still