The vine leaves against the brick… Are rusty and broken. Dead leaves gather under the pine-… The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes Sweep against the stars.

Hold your soul open for my welcomi… Let the quiet of your spirit bathe… With its clear and rippled coolnes… That, loose-limbed and weary, I f… Outstretched upon your peace, as o…

A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden heaviness, and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie

I want no horns to rouse me up to-… And trumpets make too clamorous a… To fit my mood, it is so weary whi… I have no wish for doing any thing… A music coaxed from humming string…

You—you— Your shadow is sunlight on a plate… Your footsteps, the seeding-place… Your hands moving, a chime of bell… The movement of your hands is the…

“So . . .” they said, With their wine-glasses delicately… Mocking at the thing they cannot u… “So . . .” they said again, Amused and insolent.

He died of “Stranger’s Fever” whe… Had scarcely melted into manhood,… The chiselled legend runs; a broth… Laid bare for epitaph. The savage… Of a sunny, bright, but alien land…

Must all of worth be travailled fo… Life’s brightest stars rise from a… Must years go by in sad uncertaint… Leaving us doubting whose the conq… Are we or Fate the victors? Time…

The lawyer, are you? Well! I ain’t got nothin’ to say… Nothin’! I told the perlice I hadn’t nothi… They know’d real well 'twas me.

When you, my Dear, are away, away… How wearily goes the creeping day. A year drags after morning, and ni… Starts another year of candle ligh… O Pausing Sun and Lingering Moon…

I do not care to talk to you altho… Your speech evokes a thousand symp… And all my being’s silent harmonie… Wake trembling into music. When y… It is as if some sudden, dreadful…

The nursery fire burns brightly, c… and trails of sparks up the back o… peppering the black bricks with go… flamed a night of victorious wars. The nodding mandarin on the bookca…

He perches in the slime, inert, Bedaubed with iridescent dirt. The oil upon the puddles dries To colours like a peacock’s eyes, And half-submerged tomato-cans

The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced...

It was a gusty night, With the wind booming, and swoopin… Looping round corners, Sliding over the cobble-stones, Whipping and veering,