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…

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

Guardian Of The Treasure Of Sol… And Keeper Of the Prophet’s Armo… My tent A vapour that The wind dispels and but

More dim than wining moon Thy face, mort faint Than is the falling wind Thy voice, yet do Thine eyes most strangely glow,

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

He comes from Mass early in the m… The sky’s the very blue Madonna w… The air’s alive with gold! Mark y… The birds sing and the dusted shim… On leaf and fruit?..Per Bacco, wh…

The shadowy boy of night Crosses the dusking land; He sows his poppy-seeds With steady, gentle hand. The shadowy boy of night

Great Kings were dust and all the… Did my harp’s taut and burnished s… The fragrance of dead ladies’ love… Blew never down but for my lute.

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

JUST now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as st… A white moth flew . . . Why am I… So cold?

Thou beautiful and ivory gates That shut my tears away from me - Even, at last, such refuge yield That great, safe doors of Ebony.

(1) The rose new-opening saith, And the dew of the morning saith, (Fallen leaves and vanished dew) Remember death.

No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!

Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and

Seen on a night in November How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumn, evanescent, wan,