Success allures us in the earth an… We seek to win her, but, too amoro… Mocking, she flees us. Haply, wer… We would not strive and she would…

Far to the South a star, Bright-shining over all; And a sound of voices singing, ‘Round a Babe in an ox’s-stall. Three Kings a-riding, riding,

It is the time when, by the forest… The touch-me-nots hang fairy folly… When ferns and flowers fill the li… Of rocks with colour, rich as orie… And in my heart I hear a voice th…

An old, lost lane; where can it le… To stony pastures, where the weed Purples its plume, or sails its se… And from one knoll, the vetch make… Trailing its glimmering ribbon on,

I Stood upon a height and listene… The solemn psalmody of many pines, And with the sound I seemed to se… Of mountains rise, blue peak on cl… And hear the roar of torrents hurl…

I Saw the day like some great mon… Gold-couched, behind the clouds’ r… Then, purple-sandaled, clad in sil… Of sleep, through halls of skyey l… The twilight, like a mourning quee…

Last night it was Hallowe’en. Darkest night I’ve ever seen. And the boy next door, I thought, Would be glad to know of this Jack-o’-lantern father brought

What joy you take in making hotnes… In emphasising dulness with your b… Making monotony more monotonous! When Summer comes, and drouth hat… In all the creeks, we hear your ra…

Loss molds our lives in many ways, And fills our souls with guesses; Upon our hearts sad hands it lays Like some grave priest that blesse… Far better than the love we win,

Far as the eye can see, in domes a… Buttress and curve, ruins of shift… In whose wild making wind and sea… The white dunes stretch. The wind… Striving for strange effects that…

As one, who, journeying westward w… Beholds at length from the up-towe… Far-off, a land unspeakable beauty… Circean peaks and vales of Avalon… And, sinking weary, watches, one b…

From the hills and far away All the long, warm summer day Comes the wind and seems to say: ‘Come, oh, come! and let us go Where the meadows bend and blow,

Their only thought religion, What Christmas joys had they, The stern, staunch Pilgrim Father… Knew naught of holiday? A log-church in the clearing

Were I an artist, Lydia, I Would paint you as you merit, Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry… Not in the flesh, but spirit. The canvas I would paint you on

WHAT shall her silence keep Under the sun? Here, where the willows weep And waters run; Here, where she lies asleep,