Reap, reap the grain and gather The sweet grapes from the vine; Our Lord’s mother is weeping, She hath nor bread nor wine; She is weeping. The Queen of Hea…

Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn.

For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,

Every day, Every day, Tell the hours By their shadows, By their shadows.

Art thou Not kin to him Who loved Mark’s wife and both Died for it? O, thou harper in Green woods?

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

Well and If day on day Follows and weary year On year . . . and ever days and ye… Well?

A-sway, On red rose, A golden butterfly. . And on my heart a butterfly Night-wing’d.

Force and bluster? Mighty threate… Scorn I lightly, - Not for these. Tell me when shall great Orion Catch the flying Pleuades?

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

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sigh… Of Greece.

Keep thou Thy tearless watch All night but when blue-dawn Breathes on the silver moon, then… Then weep!

O mia Luna! Porta mi fortuna! (You must say it nine times, curts… In rose-pale, fading blue of twili… See, the new moon’s thin crescent… Nine times I’ll curtsey murmuring…

The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land. .alack The little people in the hills Will die!

I have minded me Of the noon-day brightness, And the cricket’s drowsy Singing in the sunshine. . I have minded me