Some candle clear burns somewhere… I muse at how its being puts bliss… With yellowy moisture mild night’s… Or to—fro tender trambeams truckle… By that window what task what fing…
Honour is flashed off exploit, so… And those strokes once that gashed… Should tongue that time now, trump… And, on the fighter, forge his glo… On Christ they do and on the mart…
ACT I. SC. I Enter Teryth from riding, Winefre… T. WHAT is it, Gwen, my girl? w… W. You came by Caerwys, sir? T. I came by Caerwys.
As a dare—gale skylark scanted in… Man’s mounting spirit in his bone—… That bird beyond the remembering h… This in drudgery, day—labouring—ou… Though aloft on turf or perch or p…
‘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,
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…
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
HAVE, fair fallen, O fair, fair… To me, so arch—especial a spirit a… An age is now since passed, since… Of the outward sentence low lays h… Not mood in him nor meaning, proud…
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…
‘But tell me, child, your choice;… You?’—‘Father, what you buy me I… With the sweetest air that said, s… He swung to his first poised purpo… What the heart is! which, like car…
What shall I do for the land that… Her homes and fields that folded a… Be under her banner and live for h… Under her banner I’ll live for he… CHORUS. Under her banner live f…
. . . . . . . . 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…
I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and… And a few lilies blow. And I have asked to be
May is Mary’s month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season— Candlemas, Lady Day;
Thee, God, I come from, to thee g… All day long I like fountain flow From thy hand out, swayed about Mote—like in thy mighty glow. What I know of thee I bless,
