From hill and hollow, side by side… The shadows came, like dreams, to… And watch, mysterious, sunset-eyed… The wool-winged moths and bats afl… And the lone owl that cried and cr…

‘T was Fiddledeedee who put to se… With a rollicking buccaneer Bumbl… An acorn-cup was their hollow boat A rakish craft was their acorn-boa… And their sail a butterfly’s wing;

The dim verbena drugs the dusk With lemon-heavy odours where The heliotropes breathe drowsy mus… Into the jasmine-dreamy air; The moss-rose bursts its dewy husk

The Winter Wind, the wind of deat… Who knocked upon my door, Now through the keyhole entereth, Invisible and hoar: He breathes around his icy breath

Here where the coves indent the sh… And fill with ebb and flowing of t… Whereon some barge rocks or some d… By which old orchards bloom, or, f… Pelt every lane with fruit; where…

As I went through the wood, the w… Through fern and pimpernel, A water fell, a water stood, Twinkling within a dell, And Naiad fancies, gleaming, hung

The day is dead; and in the west The slender crescent of the moon Diana’s crystal-kindled crest Sinks hillward in a silvery swoon. What is the murmur in the dell?

Dark, drear, and drizzly, with vap… The day goes dully unto its close; Its wet robe smutches each thing i… Its fingers sully and wreck the ro… Around the railing and garden-pali…

LIFE was unkind to him; All things went wrong: Fortune assigned to him Merely a song. Ever a mystery

Here is a tale for men and women t… There was a girl who’d ceased to b… Who walked by night with heart lik… A child of sin anathemaed of preac… She had been lovely once; but dye…

Here is a tale for infants and old… There was a man who gathered rags;… Who lived alone: with no one ever… And this old man was very fond of… His house, a ruin, so the tale reh…

A Far bell tinkles in the hollow, And heart and soul are fain to fol… Gone is the rose and gone the swal… Autumn is here. The wild geese draw at dusk their…

I can’t get up with the chickens; I can’t get up at dark: And what do I care for the early… And what do I care for the lark? I can’t do this or that thing;

There is a path that leads Through purple iron-weeds, By button-bush and mallow Along a creek; A path that wildflowers hallow,

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,