Ah, mystic child of Beauty, namel… Dateless and fatherless, how long… A Greek, with some rare sadness o… Shaped thee, perchance, and quite… Or Raphael thy sweetness did best…

“And now am I greatly repenting t… ’Tis thought Odysseus when the st… With all the waves and wars, a wea… Grew restless in his disenchanted… And still would watch the sunset,…

Of all the lords in faire Scotlan… A song I will begin: Amongst them all dwelled a lord Which was the unthrifty Lord of L… His father and mother were dead hi…

Clavers and his Highlandmen Came down upo’ the raw, man, Who being stout, gave mony a clout… The lads began to claw then. With sword and terge into their ha…

The call of homing rooks, the shri… Song of some bird that watches lat… The cries of children break the st… Sad twilight by the churchyard gat… And o’er your far-off tomb the gre…

1731 BEAUTIFUL face of a child, Lighted with laughter and glee, Mirthful, and tender, and wild, My heart is heavy for thee!

Here I’d come when weariest! Here the breast Of the Windburg’s tufted over Deep with bracken; here his crest Takes the west,

It fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and caul… Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men,— ‘We maun draw to a hald. ’And whatna hald shall we draw to,

A pleasant land is Scribie, where The light comes mostly from below, And seems a sort of symbol rare Of things at large, and how they g… In rooms where doors are everywher…

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…

My Love dwelt in a Northern land. A gray tower in a forest green Was hers, and far on either hand The long wash of the waves was see… And leagues on leagues of yellow s…

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…

(Clement Marot’s Frère Lubin, th… Some ten or twenty times a day, To bustle to the town with speed, To dabble in what dirt he may,— Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need…

A. Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands Oh where have you been? They have slain the Earl of Murra… And they layd him on the green.

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…