If, with the literate, I am Impelled to try an epigram, I never seek to take the credit; We all assume that Oscar said it.

My garden blossoms pink and white, A place of decorous murmuring, Where I am safe from August night And cannot feel the knife of Spri… And I may walk the pretty place

Upon the work of Walter Landor I am unfit to write with candor. If you can read it, well and good; But as for me, I never could.

Who was there had seen us Wouldn’t bid him run? Heavy lay between us All our sires had done. There he was, a-springing

I shall come back without fanfaron… Of wailing wind and graveyard pano… But, trembling, slip from cool Et… A mild and most bewildered little… I shall not make sepulchral midnig…

Always I knew that it could not l… (Gathering clouds, and the snowfla… Now it is part of the golden past (Darkening skies, and the night-wi… It is but cowardice to pretend.

Roses, rooted warm in earth, Bud in rhyme, another age; Lilies know a ghostly birth Strewn along a patterned page; Golden lad and chimbley sweep

You know the bloom, unearthly whit… That none has seen by morning ligh… The tender moon, alone, may bare Its beauty to the secret air. Who’d venture past its dark retrea…

If she had been beautiful, even, Or wiser than women about her, Or had moved with a certain defian… If she had had sons at her sides, And she with her hands on their sh…

Who was there had seen us Wouldn’t bid him run? Heavy lay between us All our sires had done. There he was, a-springing

Men seldom make passes At girls who wear glasses.

Sleep, pretty lady, the night is e… Drift, and so lightly, on crystall… Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkn… Starlight bespangles the way of yo… Chorus the nightingales, wistfully…

A string of shiny days we had, A spotless sky, a yellow sun; And neither you nor I was sad When that was through and done. But when, one day, a boy comes by

Love has gone a-rocketing. That is not the worst; I could do without the thing, And not be the first. Joy has gone the way it came.