Whence came his feet into my field… How is it that he sees it all so d… How do I see his seeing, and how… The name his bitter silence knows… This was the little fold of separa…

Her lute hangs shadowed in the app… While flashing fingers weave the s… Between its chords; and as the wil… The sea—bird for those branches le… But to what sound her listening ea…

I said: “Nay, pluck not,—let the… Even as thou sayest, it is sweet a… But let it ripen still. The tree’… Sees in the stream its own fecundi… And bides the day of fulness. Sha…

BETWEEN Holmscote and Hurstcot… The river—reaches wind, The whispering trees accept the br… The ripple’s cool and kind; With love low—whispered 'twixt the…

Look in my face; my name is Might… I am also call’d No—more, Too—lat… Unto thine ear I hold the dead—se… Cast up thy Life’s foam—fretted f… Unto thine eyes the glass where th…

This is her picture as she was: It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone. I gaze until she seems to stir,—

SWEET Poet, thou of whom these… Must one day yet the burdened birt… And by the darkness of thine eyes… How piercing was the sight within… Gifted apart, thou goest to the gr…

As when two men have loved a woman… Each hating each, through Love’s… Since not for either this stark ma… And the long pauses of this weddin… Yet o’er her grave the night and d…

Watch thou and fear; to—morrow tho… Or art thou sure thou shalt have t… Is not the day which God’s word p… To come man knows not when? In yo… Now while we speak, the sun speeds…

AT length I sickened, standing in… Truthful and for the Truth, whose… Are madness and sharp death. I bo… And said: “As long as the world’s… These accents have been said and t…

Your hands lie open in the long fr… The finger—points look through lik… Your eyes smile peace. The pastur… ‘Neath billowing skies that scatte… All round our nest, far as the eye…

Of her two fights with the Beryl—… Lost the first, but the second won… “MARY mine that art Mary’s Rose Come in to me from the garden—clos… The sun sinks fast with the rising…

So it is, my dear. All such things touch secret strin… For heavy hearts to hear. So it is, my dear. Very like indeed:

Beauty like hers is genius. Not t… Of Homer’s or of Dante’s heart su… Not Michael’s hand furrowing the… Is more with compassed mysteries m… Nay, not in Spring’s or Summer’s…

First Snow, February WOOLNER, to—night it snows for… Our feet know well the path where… Mine leave one track: how all the… Are hoary in the long—unwonted rim…