My Juggins, see: the pasture gree… Obeying Nature’s kindly law, Renews its mantle; there has been A thaw. The frost-bound earth is free at l…

After W. M. P. Dear Kitty, At length the term’s ending; I 'm in for my Schools in a week; And the time that at present I’m…

On seeing her smile repeated in he… A thousand songs I might have mad… Of You, and only You; A thousand thousand tongues of fir… That trembled down a golden wire

OF THREE CHILDREN CHOOS… A CHAPLET OF VERSE You and I and Burd so blithe’€” Burd so blithe, and you, and I’€” The Mower he would whet his scyth…

I. THE SOLDIER (Roumanian) When winter trees bestrew the path… Still to the twig a leaf or twain Will cling and weep, not Winter’s…

NOW ponder well, you parents dear… These words which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account

O pastoral heart of England! like… Of green days telling with a quiet… O wave into the sunset flowing cal… O tirèd lark descending on the whe… Lies it all peace beyond the weste…

Down in the street the last late h… Still westward, but with backward… The harlot shuffles to her lonely… The tall policeman pauses but to t… A flash into the empty portico;

Know you her secret none can utter… Hers of the Book, the tripled Cro… Still on the spire the pigeons flu… Still by the gateway flits the gow… Still on the street, from corbel a…

Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge fro… What ayles thee soe to pyne? Thy carefulle heart shall cease to… When dayes be fyne And greene thynges twyne:

O waly, waly, my bonnie crew Gin ye maun bumpit be! And waly, waly, my Stroke sae tru… Ye leuk unpleasauntlie! O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie

After C. S. C. When the hunter-star Orion (Or, it may be, Charles his Wain) Tempts the tiny elves to try on All their little tricks again;

Do I sleep? Do I dream? Am I hoaxed by a scout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our 'to ti en einai’ a failure,…

By A. C. S. The Centuries kiss and commingle, Cling, clasp, and are knit in a ch… No cycle but scorns to be single, No two but demur to be twain,

Nay, more than violets These thoughts of thine, friend! Rather thy reedy brook— Taw’s tributary— At midnight murmuring,