The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn, And up from India glances The silver sail of dawn. The candles burn their sockets,

O why do you walk through the fiel… Missing so much and so much? O fat white woman whom nobody shoo… Why do you walk through the fields… When the grass is soft as the brea…

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…

The rainy Pleiads wester, Orion plunges prone, The stroke of midnight ceases And I lie down alone. The rainy Pleiads wester,

ow dreary dawns the eastern light, And fall of eve is drear, And cold the poor man lies at nigh… And so goes out the year. Little is the luck I’ve had,

Crossing alone the nighted ferry With the one coin for fee, Whom, on the wharf of Lethe waiti… Count you to find? Not me. The brisk fond lackey to fetch and…

Stay, if you list, O passer by th… Yet night approaches; better not t… I never sigh, nor flush, nor knit… Nor grieve to think how ill God m… Here, with one balm for many fever…

Once in the wind of morning I ranged the thymy wold; The world-wide air was azure And all the brooks ran gold. There through the dews beside me

The winds out of the west land blo… My friends have breathed them ther… Warm with the blood of lads I kno… Comes east the sighing air. It fanned their temples, filled th…

Shot? so quick, so clean an ending… Oh that was right, lad, that was b… Yours was not an ill for mending, 'Twas best to take it to the grave… Oh you had forethought, you could…

The sloe was lost in flower, The April elm was dim; That was the lover’s hour, The hour for lies and him. If thorns are all the bower,

In summertime on Bredon The bells they sound so clear; Round both the shires they ring th… In steeples far and near, A happy noise to hear.

Horace, Odes, iv, 7 The snows are fled away, leaves on… And grasses in the mead renew thei… The river to the river-bed withdra… And altered is the fashion of the…

There pass the careless people That call their souls their own: Here by the road I loiter, How idle and alone. Ah, past the plunge of plummet,

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: