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…
The best ideal is the true And other truth is none. All glory be ascribèd to The holy Three in One.
Wild air, world—mothering air, Nestling me everywhere, That each eyelash or hair Girdles; goes home betwixt The fleeciest, frailest—flixed
May is Mary’s month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season— Candlemas, Lady Day;
I caught this morning morning’s mi… dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple—… Of the rolling level underneath hi… High there, how he rung upon the r… In his ecstasy! then off, off fort…
Towery city and branchy between to… Cuckoo—echoing, bell—swarmèd, lark… The dapple—eared lily below thee;… Once encounter in, here coped & po… Thou hast a base and brickish skir…
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring… When weeds, in wheels, shoot long… Thrush’s eggs look little low heav… Through the echoing timber does so… The ear, it strikes like lightning…
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…
Now Time’s Andromeda on this rock… With not her either beauty’s equal… Her injury’s, looks off by both ho… Her flower, her piece of being, do… Time past she has been attempted a…
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…
Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear. Shape nothing, lips; be lovely—dum…
The furl of fresh—leaved dogrose d… His cheeks the forth—and—flaunting… Had swarthed about with lion—brown Before the Spring was done. His locks like all a ravel—rope’s—…
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
‘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,
God with honour hang your head, Groom, and grace you, bride, your… With lissome scions, sweet scions, Out of hallowed bodies bred. Each by other’s comfort kind:
