Let us mix a cup of Joy That the wretched may employ, Whom the Fates have made their to… Who have given brain and heart To the thankless world of Art,

Blow high, blow low! No longer borrow Care of tomorrow: Take joy of life, and let care go!

Upon the mossed rock by the spring She sits, forgetful of her pail, Lost in remote remembering Of that which may no more avail. Her thin, pale hair is dimly dress…

This is the heart’s own day: With dreaming eyes Life seems to look away Beyond the skies Into some long-gone May.

Here is a tale for all who wish to… There was a thief who, in his cut-… Was hailed as chief; he had a way… Persuasion, masked, behind a weapo… That made it cockrow with each goo…

Little boy sleepy won’t go to bed, Though the Sand Man came an hour… And sand all under his eyelids spr… Though his eyes are heavy and heav… And his little tired feet seem mad…

Slow sinks the sun, a great carbun… Red in the cavern of a sombre clou… And in her garden, where the dense… Among her dying asters stands the… Like some lone woman in a ruined h…

From the idyll 'Wild Thorn and L… O Maytime woods! O Maytime lanes… And stars, that knew how often the… Beside the path, where woodbine od… Between the drowsy eyelids of the…

I HEARD a Spirit singing as, be… Its radiant form went swinging lik… In its song prophetic voices mixed… As when, loud, the World rejoices… And it said:

In the woods, not long ago, Met with Robin Goodfellów; First we heard his horse-like laug… In an ivy-bush near by; Then we saw him, like a calf,

They are the wise who look before, Nor fear to look behind; Who in the darkness still ignore Pale shadows of the mind. Who, having lost, though loss be m…

Sleep is a spirit, who beside us s… Or through our frames like some di… From out her form a pearly light i… As from a lily, in a lily-bed, A firefly’s gleam. Her face is pa…

Sodden and shivering, in mud and r… Half in the light that serves but… The blackness of an alley and the… Homeward of wretchedness in tatter… A boy stands crouched; big drops o…

‘He cometh not,’ she said.’ —MARIANA It will not be to-day and yet I think and dream it will; and let The slow uncertainty devise

THERE a tattered marigold And dead asters manifold, Showed him where the garden old Of time bloomed: Briar and thistle overgrew