They say, that Pity in Love’s ser… A porter at the rosy temple’s gate… I missed him going: but it is my f… To come upon him now beside his we… Whereby I know that I Love’s tem…

The old grey Alp has caught the c… And the torrent river sings aloud; The glacier-green Rosanna sings An organ song of its upper springs… Foaming under the tiers of pine,

Thus piteously Love closed what h… The union of this ever-diverse pai… These two were rapid falcons in a… Condemned to do the flitting of th… Lovers beneath the singing sky of…

Not ere the bitter herb we taste, Which ages thought of happy times, To plant us in a weeping waste, Rings with our fellows this one he… Accordant chimes.

See the sweet women, friend, that… The ever-falling fountain of green… Round the white bending stem, and… Of our most blushful flower shine… To teach philosophers the thirst o…

Days, when the ball of our vision Had eagles that flew unabashed to… When the grasp on the bow was deci… And arrow and hand and eye were on… When the Pleasures, like waves to…

THE POETRY OF CHAUCER Grey with all honours of age! but… As dawn when the drowsy farm-yard… Tender to tearfulness-childlike, a… Here beats true English blood ric…

Cannon his name, Cannon his voice, he came. Who heard of him heard shaken hill… An earth at quake, to quiet stampe… Who looked on him beheld the will…

No, no, the falling blossom is no… Of loveliness destroy’d and sorrow… The blossom sheds its loveliness d… Its mission is to prophecy the fru… Nor is the day of love for ever de…

(The Death Of Robert Browning) Now dumb is he who waked the world… And voiceless hangs the world besi… Our words are sobs, our cry of pra… We are the smitten mortal, we the…

[Iliad, B. I. V. 149] ‘Heigh me! brazen of front, thou g… Servant here to thy mandates, heed… Either the mission hie on or stout… I, not hither I fared on account…

Grey with all honours of age! but… As dawn when the drowsy farm-yard… Tender to tearfulness—childlike, a… Here beats true English blood ric… ground.

[Iliad; B. XI V. 378] So he, with a clear shout of laugh… Forth of his ambush leapt, and he… ‘Hit thou art! not in vain flew th… Into the undermost gut, therewith…

They have no song, the sedges dry, And still they sing. It is within my breast they sing, As I pass by. Within my breast they touch a stri…

Am I failing? For no longer can… A glory round about this head of g… Glory she wears, but springing fro… Not like the consecration of the… Is my soul beggared? Something mo…