IN her vast church of glimmering… Gray-stoled from feet to chin, Her dark locks beaded with the dew… The nun-like dawn comes in: At once the hills put on their spe…

I do not love you now, O narrow heart, that had no height… You, whom mine fed; to whom yours… Food when mine hungered, and of wh… I do not love you now.

I Heard a reed among the hills, A woodland reed of music where, Like madcap children, ran the rill… Boisterous, with wildly flowing ha… I knew it for a pipe the Spring

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…

We were a crew of what you please, Men with the lust of gold gone mad… Dutch and Yankee and Portuguese, With a nigger or two from Trinida… The scum of the Caribbees:

With eyes hand-arched he looks int… The morning’s face; then turns awa… With truant feet, all wet with dew… Out for a holiday. The hill brook sings; incessant st…

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,

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

Here where a tree and its wild lia… Leaning over the streamlet, grow, Once a nymph, like the moon’d Dia… Sat in the ages long ago. Sat with a mortal. with whom she h…

Squat-nosed and broad, of big and… A tavern visage, apoplexy haunts, All pimple-puffed: the Falstaff-l… Of fat debauchery, whose veined ch… A flabby purple: rusty-spurred he…

SHUT it out of the heart—this gr… O Love, with the years grown old… And let in joy that life is brief, And give God thanks for the end o… The bond of the flesh is transitor…

There is a place I search for sti… Sequestered as the world of dreams… A bushy hollow, and a hill That whispers with descending stre… Cool, careless waters, wandering d…

Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours: Some measure days by dreams, And some by flowers: My heart alone records

Upon the summit of his Century He reared a Palace of enduring Ar… From whose wild windows never more… Beauty’s pale light and starry fan… Within is music, sobbing ceaseless…

There’s a bug at night that goes Drowsily down the garden ways; Lumberingly above the rose, And above the jasmine sprays; Bumping, bungling, buzzing by,