All day long I have been working, Now I am tired I call: “Where are you?” But there is only the oak-tree rus… The house is very quiet,

Look, Dear, how bright the moonli… See where it casts the shadow of t… Far out upon the grass. And every… Of light night wind comes laden wi… Of opening flowers which never blo…

A Minstrel stands on a marble sta… Blown by the bright wind, debonair… Below lies the sea, a sapphire flo… Above on the terrace a turret door Frames a lady, listless and wan,

Frindsbury, Kent, 1786 Bang! Bang! Tap! Tap-a-tap! Rap!

You are like the stem Of a young beech-tree, Straight and swaying, Breaking out in golden leaves. Your walk is like the blowing of a…

Blue through the window burns the… Heavy, through trees, blows the wa… Glistening, against the chill, gra… Wet, black branches are barred and… Sodden and spongy, the scarce-gree…

I cut myself upon the thought of y… And yet I come back to it again a… A kind of fury makes me want to dr… From the dimness of the present And set you sharply above me in a…

Wild little bird, who chose thee f… To put upon the cover of this book… Who heard thee singing in the dist… The vague, far greenness of the en… When the damp freshness of the mor…

Leisure, thou goddess of a bygone… When hours were long and days suff… Wide-eyed delights and pleasures u… By shortening moments, when no gau… Of undone duties, modern heritage,

By day you cannot see the sky For it is up so very high. You look and look, but it’s so blu… That you can never see right throu… But when night comes it is quite p…

Alone, I whet my soul against the… Unwrinkled sky, with its long stre… I polish it with sunlight and pale… And damascene it with young blowin… Into the handle of my life I set

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…

Swirl of crowded streets. Shock a… brick facade of an old church, aga… lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunsh… in the windows of chemists’ shops,… darting colours far into the crowd…

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…

They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river,