The twisted rhombs ceased their cl… The scorched laurel lay in the fir… The moon still declined to descend… But the black ominous owl hoot was… And one raft bears our fates

Alba When the nightingale to his mate Sings day-long and night late My love and I keep state In bower,

What have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere,

The spring, my dear, Is no longer spring. Does the blackbird sing What he sang last year? Are the skies the old

What if I know thy speeches word… And if thou knew’st I knew them w… What if I know thy speeches word… And all the time thou sayest them… ‘Lo, one there was who bent her fa…

FROM THE ITALIAN OF LE… Such wast thou, Who art now But buried dust and rusted skeleto… Above the bones and mire,

Go, my songs, seek your praise fro… and from the intolerant, Move among the lovers of perfectio…

To me at my fifth-floor window The chimney-pots in rows Are sets of pipes pandean For every wind that blows; And the smoke that whirls and eddi…

How will this beauty, when I am f… Sweep back upon me and engulf my m… How will these hours, when we twai… Turned in their sapphire tide, com…

There’s a regret So grinding, so immitigably sad, Remorse thereby feels tolerant, ev… Do you not know it yet? For deeds undone

For three years, out of key with h… He strove to resuscitate the dead… Of poetry; to maintain “the sublim… In the old sense. Wrong from the… No, hardly, but, seeing he had bee…

I am a grave poetic hen That lays poetic eggs And to enhance my temperament A little quiet begs. We make the yolk philosophy,

When you wake in your crib, You, an inch of experience - Vaulted about With the wonder of darkness; Wailing and striving

When I was only a youngster, Sing: toodle doodlede ootl Ole Kate would git her 'arf a pin… And wouldn’t’ giv’ a damn hoot. ‘Them stairs! them stairs, them go…