Lo, how they weave– the imperturba… Those threads that are my destiny: Steadily at the eternal task they’… Industrious . . . indifferent . .… Weave, Fates! And what your spins…

So may you sleep alway, My baby, my dear son: Amen, Amen, Amen. My baby, my dear son.

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

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

Than spring’s new scents The winter’s earliest wind Blows from the hills the first fai… Of Snow. Why have I

The sun is warm today, O Romulus, and on Thine older Palentine the birds Still sing.

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

And the centurion who stood by sai… Truly this was a son of God. Not long ago but everywhere I go There is a hill and a black windy… Portent of hill, sky, day’s eclips…

Sea-foam And coral! Oh, I’ll Climb the great pasture rocks And dream me mermaid in the sun’s Gold flood.

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

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

These be three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of… Just dead.

A laggard in the rear of time’s sw… And one who loiters on an aimless… Through lands he knows not; lured… In secret paths where silence hold… And rust ascending wings. Roads m…

When I was girl by Nilus stream I watched the deserts stars arise; My lover, he who dreamed the Sphi… Learned all his dreaming from eyes… I bore in Greece a burning name,

Not spring’s Thou art, but hers, Most cool, most virginal, Winter’s, with thy faint breath, t… Rose-tinged.