'When that dead face, bowered in t… Which once was all the life years… Can now scarce bid the tides of me… Cast on thy soul a little spray of… How canst thou gaze into these eye…

The lost days of my life until to—… What were they, could I see them… Lie as they fell? Would they be e… Sown once for food but trodden int… Or golden coins squandered and sti…

Oh! May sits crowned with hawthor… And is Love’s month, they say; And Love’s the fruit that is ripe… By ladies’ eyes in May.

WHAT of the end, Pandora? Was i… The deed that set these fiery pini… Ah! wherefore did the Olympian co… In its own likeness make thee half… Was it that Juno’s brow might sta…

WITH Shakspeare’s manhood at a b… Through Hamlet’s doubt to Shakspe… And kin to Milton through his Sat… At Death’s sole door he stooped,… And to the dear new bower of Engl…

Look in my face; my name is Might… I am also called 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…

Upon a Flemish road, when noon wa… I passed a little consecrated shri… Where, among simple pictures range… The blessed Mary holds her child… To kneel here, shepherd—maidens le…

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…

“'TWAS thus, thus is, and thus s… The Beautiful—the Good— Still mirror to the Human Soul Its own intensitude!”

As when desire, long darkling, daw… The mother looks upon the newborn… Even so my Lady stood at gaze and… When her soul knew at length the… Born with her life, creature of po…

Around the vase of Life at your s… He has not crept, but turned it wi… And all its sides already understa… There, girt, one breathes alert fo… Whose road runs far by sands and f…

We are upon the Scheldt. We know… Because there is a floating at our… Whatso they seek; and because all… Which on our outset were distinct… Are smaller and much weaker and qu…

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…

YESTERDAY was St. Valentine. Thought you at all, dear dove divi… Upon the beard in sorry trim And rueful countenance of him, That Orson who’s your Valentine?

Love, through your spirit and mine… Now glows with glory of all things… Since this day’s sun of rapture fi… And the light sweetened as the fir… Awhile now softlier let your bosom…