With fruit and flowers the board i… The wine and laughter flow; I’ll not complain—could one expect So dull a world to know? You look across the fruit and flow…

(From Lenau.) So late, and yet a nightingale? Long since have dropp’d the blosso… The summer fields are ripening, And yet a sound of spring?

I knew not if to laugh or weep; They sat and talked of you— “'Twas here he sat; ’twas this he… ’Twas that he used to do. ”Here is the book wherein he read,

Straw in the street where I pass… Dulls the sound of the wheels and… ’Tis for a failing life they lay Straw in the street. Here, where the pulses of London…

What does youth know of love? Little enough, I trow! He plucks the myrtle for his brow, For his forehead the rose. Nay, but of love

With beating heart and lagging fee… Lord, I approach the Judgment-sea… All bring hither the fruits of toi… Measures of wheat and measures of… Gold and jewels and precious wine;

Now, even, I cannot think it true… My friend, that there is no more y… Almost as soon were no more I, Which were, of course, absurdity! Your place is bare, you are not se…

O say, thou wild, thou oft deceive… What mean these noisy throbbings i… After thy long, unutterable woe Wouldst thou not rest? Fall’n from Life’s tree the sweet…

“O love, lean thou thy cheek to mi… And let the tears together flow”— Such was the song you sang to me Once, long ago. Such was the song you sang; and ye…

They trod the streets and squares… With weary hearts, a little while… When, thin and grey, the melanchol… Clung to the leafless branches ove… Or when the smoke-veiled sky grew…

A haunted town thou art to me.<… —Andrew Lang To-day in Florence all the air Is soft with spring, with sunlight… In the tall street gay folks are m…

(To Sylvia.) My Love, my Love, it was a day in… A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon… And all the eager people thronging… To that great hall, drawn by the m…

At Loschwitz above the city The air is sunny and chill; The birch-trees and the pine-trees Grow thick upon the hill. Lone and tall, with silver stem,

What ails my senses thus to cheat? What is it ails the place, That all the people in the street Should wear one woman’s face? The London trees are dusty-brown

Since that I may not have Love on this side the grave, Let me imagine Love. Since not mine is the bliss Of ‘claspt hands and lips that kis…