I was always a lover of ladies’ ha… Or ever mine heart came here to tr… For the sake of your carved white… The tapering fingers, the dainty w… The hands of a girl were what I k…

Mark the day white, on which the… Eugenio and Egeria have a child. On whom abundant grace kind Jove… If she but copy either parent’s pa… Then, Muses! long devoted to her…

With delicate, mad hands, behind h… Surely he hath his posies, which t… Those scentless wisps of straw, th… His strait, caged universe, wherea… Pedant and pitiful. O, how his ra…

All the moon-shed nights are over, And the days of gray and dun; There is neither may nor clover, And the day and night are one. Not an hamlet, not a city

I watched the glory of her childho… Half-sorrowful to find the child… (Loved long ago in lily-time), Become a maid, mysterious and stra… With fair, pure eyes - dear eyes,…

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwi… There fell thy shadow, Cynara! th… Upon my soul between the kisses an… And I was desolate and sick of an… Yea, I was desolate and bowed my…

Who is this mortal Who ventures to-night To woo an immortal, Cold, cold the moon’s light For sleep at this portal,

Ah, Manon, say, why is it we Are one and all so fain of thee? Thy rich red beauty debonnaire In very truth is not more fair, Than the shy grace and purity

The fire is out, and spent the war… (This is the end of every song man… The golden wine is drunk, the dreg… Bitter as wormwood and as salt as… And health and hope have gone the…

Because I am idolotrous and have… With grievous supplication and con… The admirable image that my love h… Out of her swan’s neck and her dar… The jealous gods who brook no wors…

WITH HIS SONGS AND HE… Violets and leaves of vine, Into a frail, fair wreath We gather and entwine: A wreath for Love to wear,

Let us go hence: the night is now… The day is overworn, the birds all… And we have reaped the crops the g… Despair and death; deep darkness o… Broods like an owl; we cannot unde…

Sleep on, dear, now The last sleep and the best, And on thy brow, And on thy quiet breast Violets I throw.

By the sad waters of separation Where we have wandered by divers w… I have but the shadow and imitatio… Of the old memorial days. In music I have no consolation,

Erewhile, before the world was old… When violets grew and celandine, In Cupid’s train we were enrolled… Erewhile! Your little hands were clasped in…