Thine eyes are like the sea, my de… The wand’ring waters, green and gr… Thine eyes are wonderful and clear… And deep, and deadly, even as they… The spirit of the changeful sea

My heart’s an old Spinet with str… To laughter chiefly tuned, but som… That Fate has practised hard on,… They answer not whoever sings. The ghosts of half-forgotten thing…

Ah, listen through the music, from… The 'melancholy long-withdrawing r… Beneath the Minster, and the wind… The wide North Ocean, marshalling… Even so forlorn—in worlds beyond o…

When Lent and Responsions are end… When May with fritillaries waits, When the flower of the chestnut is… When drags are at all of the gates (Those drags the philosopher 'slat…

Where smooth the southern waters r… By rustling leagues of poplars gre… Beneath a veiled soft southern sun… We wandered out of yesterday, Went maying through that ancient…

Oh, where are the endless Romance… Our grandmothers used to adore? The Knights with their helms and… Their shields and the favours they… And the Monks with their magical…

Ye giant shades of RA and TUM, Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian, If murmurs of our planet come To exiles in the precincts wan Where, fetish or Olympian,

Foul fa’ the breast first treason… That Liddesdale may safely say: For in it there was baith meat and… And corn unto our geldings gay. We were stout-hearted men and true…

Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You’ll burn your fingers at the fe… And howl like other folks that fry… All evil folks that love a lie!

The painted Briton built his moun… And left his celts and clay, On yon fair slope of sunlit ground That fronts your garden gay; The Roman came, he bore the sway,

AH! leave the smoke, the wealth,… Of London, leave the bustling str… For still, by the Sicilian shore, The murmur of the Muse is sweet. Still, still, the suns of summer g…

Returning from what other seas Dost thou renew thy murmuring, Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of… To tell, the shores where float an… My love, my hope, my memories?

‘What bluid’s that on thy coat lap… Son Davie! Son Davie! What bluid’s that on thy coat lap? And the truth come tell to me, O.… ‘It is the bluid of my great hawk,

Let others praise analysis And revel in a “cultured” style, And follow the subjective Miss From Boston to the banks of Nile, Rejoice in anti-British bile,

Here stand my books, line upon lin… They reach the roof, and row by ro… They speak of faded tastes of mine… And things I did, but do not, kno… Old school books, useless long ago…