'T is you that are the music, not… The song is but a door which, open… Lets forth the pent-up melody insi… Your spirit’s harmony, which clear… Sings but of you. Throughout your…

An arid daylight shines along the… Dried to a grey monotony of tone, And stranded jelly-fish melt soft… The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond… Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Her…

There once was a man whom the gods… And a disagreeable man was he. He loathed his neighbours, and his… And he cursed eternally. He damned the sun, and he damned t…

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,

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…

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…

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

Now what in the name of the sun an… Is the meaning of this most unholy… Do men find life so full of humour… That for want of excitement they s… Fifteen millions of soldiers with…

In the cloud gray mornings I heard the herons Flying And when I came into my garden, My silken outer-garment Trailed over withered leaves.

How should I sing when buffeting… And stung with bitter surges, in w… I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadf… Marshals its undefeated dark and r… In brutal madness, reeling over gr…

Always we are following a light, Always the light recedes; with gro… We stretch toward this glory, whil… We journey through are hidden from… Dim and mysterious, folded deep in…

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our h… The end lost in dream, They float past our view,

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

Spread on the roadway, With open-blown jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists.

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…