. . . . . . . . Hope holds to Christ the mind’s o… To take His lovely likeness more… It will not well, so she would bri… An ever brighter burnish than befo…
THIS darksome burn, horseback br… His rollrock highroad roaring down… In coop and in comb the fleece of… Flutes and low to the lake falls h… A windpuff—bonnet of fáwn—fróth
‘The child is father to the man.’ How can he be? The words are wild… Suck any sense from that who can: ‘The child is father to the man. No; what the poet did write ran,
Look at the stars! look, look up a… O look at all the fire—folk sittin… The bright boroughs, the circle—ci… Down in dim woods the diamond delv… The grey lawns cold where gold, wh…
No worst, there is none. Pitched… More pangs will, schooled at forep… Comforter, where, where is your co… Mary, mother of us, where is your… My cries heave, herds—long; huddle…
I awoke in the Midsummer not to c… The moon, dwindled and thinned to… Or paring of paradisaical fruit, l… Stepped from the stool, drew back… A cusp still clasped him, a fluke…
Though no high—hung bells or din Of braggart bugles cry it in— What is sound? Nature’s round Makes the Silver Jubilee. Five and twenty years have run
To him who ever thought with love… Or ever did for my sake some good… I will appear, looking such charit… And kind compassion, at his life’s… That he will out of hand and heart…
Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, yo… With your fresh thoughts care for,… Ah! as the heart grows older
Yes. Why do we áll, seeing of a s… Our redcoats, our tars? Both thes… But frail clay, nay but foul clay.… Since, proud, it calls the calling… That, hopes that, makesbelieve, th…
Let me be to Thee as the circling… Or bat with tender and air—crispin… That shapes in half—light his depa… From both of whom a changeless not… I have found my music in a common…
To seem the stranger lies my lot,… Among strangers. Father and mothe… Brothers and sisters are in Chris… And he my peace my parting, sword… England, whose honour O all my he…
Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge… In Summer, in a burst of summerti… Following falls and falls of rain, When the air was sweet—and—sour of… Those goldnails and their gaylinks…
The times are nightfall, look, the… The times are winter, watch, a wor… They waste, they wither worse; the… Or bring more or more blazon man’s… And I not help. Nor word now of s…