The stinging nettle only Will still be found to stand: The numberless, the lonely, The thronger of the land, The leaf that hurts the hand.

It nods and curtseys and recovers When the wind blows above, The nettle on the graves of lovers That hanged themselves for love. The nettle nods, the wind blows ov…

West and away the wheels of darkne… Day’s beamy banner up the east is… Spectres and fears, the nightmare… Drown in the golden deluge of the… But over sea and continent from si…

Oh, see how thick the goldcup flow… Are lying in field and lane, With dandelions to tell the hours That never are told again. Oh may I squire you round the mea…

The star-filled seas are smooth to… From France to England strown; Black towers above the Portland l… The felon-quarried stone. On yonder island, not to rise,

The vane on Hughley steeple Veers bright, a far-known sign, And there lie Hughley people And there lie friends of mine. Tall in their midst the tower

Tell me not here, it needs not say… What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainte…

When first my way to fair I took Few pence in purse had I, And long I used to stand and look At things I could not buy. Now times are altered: if I care

The mill-stream, now that noises c… Is all that does not hold its peac… Under the bridge it murmurs by, And here are night and hell and I… Who made the world I cannot tell;

You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover’s say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smil…

Good creatures, do you love your l… And have you ears for sense? Here is a knife like other knives, That cost me eighteen pence. I need but stick it in my heart

On moonlit heath and lonesome bank The sheep beside me graze; And yon the gallows used to clank Fast by the four cross ways. A careless shepherd once would kee…

Oh who is that young sinner with t… And what has he been after that th… And wherefore is he wearing such a… Oh they’re taking him to prison fo… ‘Tis a shame to human nature, such…

When the eye of day is shut, And the stars deny their beams, And about the forest hut Blows the roaring wood of dreams, From deep clay, from desert rock,

Home is the sailor, home from sea: Her far-borne canvas furled The ship pours shining on the quay The plunder of the world. Home is the hunter from the hill: