I. I honour Nature, holding it un… To look with jealousy on her desig… With every passing year more fast… About my heart; with her mysteriou… Claim I a fellowship not less aug…

I have a puppet-jointed child, She’s but three half-years old; Through lawless hair her eyes glea… With looks both shy and bold. Like little imps, her tiny hands

A harebell hung her wilful head: ‘I am tired, so tired! I wish I w… She hung her head in the mossy del… ‘If all were over, then all were w… The Wind he heard, and was pitifu…

The homely words how often read! How seldom fully known! ‘Which father of you, asked for br… Would give his son a stone?’ How oft has bitter tear been shed,

From out a windy cleft there comes… Of eyes unearthly, which go to and… Upon the people’s tumult, for belo… The nations smite each other: no a… Troubles their liquid rolling, or…

Comes there, O Earth, no breathin… No pause upon thy many-chequered l… Now resting on my bed with listles… I mourn thee resting not. Continu… Hear I the plashing borders of th…

And weep not, though the Beautifu… Within thy heart, as daily in thin… Thy heart must have its autumn, it… Leading, mayhap, to winter’s dim d… Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pa…

Be welcome, year! with corn and si… Make poor the body, but make rich… What man that bears his sheaves, g… Will heed the paint rubbed from hi… Nor leave behind thy fears and hol…

He who by a mother’s love Made the wandering world his own, Every year comes from above, Comes the parted to atone, Binding Earth to the Father’s thr…

Quiet, quiet dead, Have ye aught to say From your hidden bed In the earthy clay? Fathers, children, mothers,

A gentle wind, of western birth On some far summer sea, Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, Wakes hopes in wintry me. The sun is low; the paths are wet,

Had I the grace to win the grace Of some old man in lore complete, My face would worship at his face, And I sit lowly at his feet. Had I the grace to win the grace

The witch lady walked along the st… Heard a roaring of the sea, On the edge of a pool saw a dead m… Good thing for a witch lady! Lightly she stepped across the roc…

Christmas-Days are still in store… Will they change-steal faded hithe… Or come fresh as heretofore, Summering all our winter weather? Surely they will keep their bloom

To G.E.M. ’Tis a little room, my friend– Baby walks from end to end; All the things look sadly real This hot noontide unideal;