What days await this woman, whose… Breathe spells, whose presence mak… Tall, free and slender as the fore… Whose form is moulded music, throu… Frank eyes I feel the very heart’…

By the Nile, the sacred river, I can see the captive hordes, Strain beneath the lash and quiver At the long papyrus cords, While in granite rapt and solemn,

What is more large than knowledge… Knowledge of thoughts and deeds, o… Of passions and of beauties and of… Knowledge of life; to feel its gre… Through all the soul upon her crys…

Not to be conquered by these headl… But to stand free: to keep the min… On life’s deep meaning, nature’s a… Of loveliness, and time’s mysterio… At every thought and deed to clear…

Now hath the summer reached her go… And, lost amid her corn-fields, br… Scarcely perceives from her divine… How near, how swift, the inevitabl… Still, still, she smiles, though f…

A little while, a year agone, I knew her for a romping child, A dimple and a glance that shone With idle mischief when she smiled… To-day she passed me in the press,

Dear dark-brown waters full of all… Of sombre spruce-woods and the for… Laden with sound from far-off nort… Where winds and craggy cataracts c… Voices of streams and mountain pin…

AEons ago ye were, Before the struggling changeful ra… Wrought into being, ere the tragic… Of human toil and deep desire bega… So shall ye still remain,

Scarcely a breath about the rocky… Moved, but the growing tide from v… Heaving salt fragrance on the midn… Climbed with a murmurous and fitfu… A hoary mist rose up and slowly sh…

Canst thou not rest, O city, That liest so wide and fair; Shall never an hour bring pity, Nor end be found for care? Thy walls are high in heaven,

Broad shadows fall. On all the mo… The scythe-swept fields are silent… By the long beach the high-piled h… Splashing the pale salt shallows.… Fawn-coloured wastes of mud the sl…

Oh earth, oh dewy mother, breathe… Something of all thy beauty and th… Us that are part of day, but most… Not strong like thee, but ever bur… With glooms and cares, things pale…

What do poets want with gold, Cringing slaves and cushioned ease… Are not crusts and garments old Better for their souls than these? Gold is but the juggling rod

Far up in the wild and wintery hil… woods, Where the mounded drifts lie soft… The hut of the lonely woodcutter s… A blunted peak and a low black lin…