If we must part, Then let it be like this. Not heart on heart, Nor with the useless anguish of a… But touch mine hand and say:

All that I had I brought, Little enough I know; A poor rhyme roughly wrought, A rose to match thy snow: All that I had I brought.

(For Arthur Symons) I was not sorrowful, I could not… And all my memories were put to sl… I watched the river grow more whit… All day till evening I watched it…

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…

Neobule, being tired, Far too tired to laugh or weep, From the hours, rosy and gray, Hid her golden face away. Neobule, fain of sleep,

Pale amber sunlight falls across The reddening October trees, That hardly sway before a breeze As soft as summer: summer’s loss Seems little, dear! on days like t…

By the pale marge of Acheron, Me thinks we shall pass restfully, Beyond the scope of any sun. There all men hie them one by one, Far from the stress of earth and s…

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…

When I am old, And sadly steal apart, Into the dark and cold, Friend of my heart! Remember, if you can,

The cherry-coloured velvet of your… Time hath not soiled: its fair emb… Gleam as when centuries ago they s… To what bright gallant of Her Dai… Whose slender fingers, long since…

Strange grows the river on the sun… The river comforts me, grown spect… Long was the day; at last the cons… _Sufficient for the day are the da… Labour and longing and despair the…

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

Shall one be sorrowful because of… Which hath no earthly crown, Which lives and dies, unknown? Because no words of his shall ever… Her maiden heart to own

I the deep violet air, Not a leaf is stirred; There is no sound heard, But afar, the rare Trilled voice of a bird.

Exceeding sorrow Consumeth my sad heart! Because to-morrow We must depart, Now is exceeding sorrow