A lily in a twilight place? A moonflow’r in the lonely night?— Strange beauty of a woman’s face Of wildflow’r-white! The rain that hangs a star’s green…

Why have you come? to see me in my… A thing to spit on, to despise and… And then to ask me! You, by whom… And then cast by, like some vile r… What shelter could you give me, no…

In some quaint Nurnberg maler-atelier Uprummaged. When and where was ne… Nor yet how he obtained it. When,… ’Twas painted-who shall say? itsel…

‘These winter days,’ my father say… ‘When mornings blow and bite and f… And hens sit cackling in the straw… Stiff with the frost as gates that… Remind me of my youth when, raw,

I. SPRING ON THE HILLS Ah, shall I follow, on the hills, The Spring, as wild wings follow? Where wild-plum trees make wan the… Crabapple trees the hollow,

There is a place (I know it well) Where beech trees crowd into a glo… And where a twinkling woodland wel… Flings from a rock a rippling plum… And, like a Faun beneath a spell,

Between the rose’s and the canna’s… Beneath her window in the night I… The jeweled dew hangs little stars… The white moonflowers each a spiri… That points the path to mystic sha…

From morn till noon upon the windo… The tempest tapped with rainy fing… And all the afternoon the blusteri… Beat at the door with furious feet… The rose, near which the lily bloo…

Far as the eye can see the land is… And desolation sits among the ston… Looking on ruin who, from rocks li… Stares with a dead face at the dyi… Mounds, where the barberry and bay…

Dark in the west the sunset’s somb… Unrolled vast walls the rams of wa… Along whose battlements the battle… Tempestuous beacons; and, with gat… A mighty city, red with ruin and s…

The memory of what we’ve lost Is with us more than what we’ve wo… Perhaps because we count the cost By what we could, yet have not don… ‘Twixt act and purpose fate hath d…

The frogs still cry, ‘Knee-deep!… Among its starlit pools, When dark the woodland lies asleep… And dusk its water cools: The fireflies round its bank of fe…

All the roses now are gone, All their glories shed: Here’s a rose that grows not wan, Rose of love to wear upon Your fair breast instead.

Here where the season turns the la… Among the fields our feet have kno… When we were children who would la… Glad little playmates of the wind… Before came toil and care and year…

Behold the blossom-bosomed Day ag… With all the star-white Hours in… Laughs out of pearl-lights through… That, leaning on the woodland wild… A sprinkled amber with the showers…