Once she woke to fairyland, Now she wakes to grief, All the golden days are gone, Lost by time—the thief. Once she sprang to meet the dawn,

The little babe I held upon my kn… Had not yet banished from his slee… The dreams of some lost world from… Nor missed some angel-choirèd para… Strange little soul that claimed m…

A Ballad of Good Intentions Four children played by an old oak… Big John and James and little Be… And, threading a chain of daisies… On the leaf-brown sward knelt Ger…

‘Halt, who goes there?’ 'Tis for… In long processions see what gifts… Here cometh Care with sheaf of tr… And here is Grief with dish of wo… Frail Glory, too, holds out her h…

Pardon give to Monica, She is so very fair— Though soft eyes give promises Rosy lips forswear. From the shy droop of her head.

If thou didst slip 'neath the enci… And found sure death in coral grov… Dost think the sea o’er thy unrest… Would check one moment of its ebb… If thou didst lie 'neath the entom…

My fair-haired boy is sore bewitch… He goes all full of grieving; The web of gloom upon his brow Is sure of fairy weaving. His cheery laugh I never hear,

I mourned beneath the willow tree, When shrouded came a nymph to me And slid her hand in mine. Her boldness I did much upbraid, And said ‘Begone, thou wanton mai…

‘It will be all the same in a thou… And in a thousand years It will be all the same, Whether or no Women’s tears flow,

Mo páistin deas, I did not know How cold the winter’s blast could… Into her heart, with what despair Earth drew her bloom and blossom f… How lone a man might come and go

In the heart of a rose Lies the heart of a maid; If you be not afraid You will wear it. Who knows? In the pink of its bloom,

Who is he, dying so hard? Hard is it to die’€” Die in the warmth of June, Bird and bee in tune’€” Die in the singing time,

‘Going, going!’ the voice was loud… And, rising, silenced the chatteri… ‘Going! going! shall it be gone?’ The auctioneer held up an old viol… ‘The mute though tarnished is silv…

When first you came to London Tow… Just five years old, I said—‘He’ll ask for marble hall… All paved with gold!’ I thought—‘He’ll weep, so stricke…

One spring as I went walking By budding leaf and thorn To see the sun a-shining Upon an Easter morn; My hound she gambolled by me,