How died Melissa none dares shape… A woman who is wife despotic lords Count faggot at the question, Sha… Her son, because his brows were bl… Runs barking for his bread, a fugi…

Now the frog, all lean and weak, Yawning from his famished sleep, Water in the ditch doth seek, Fast as he can stretch and leap: Marshy king-cups burning near

Let Fate or Insufficiency provide Mean ends for men who what they ar… Penned in their narrow day no chan… Save one which strikes the blow to… Our faith is ours and comes not on…

This was the woman; what now of th… But pass him. If he comes beneath… He shall be crushed until he canno… Or, being callous, haply till he c… But he is nothing:—nothing? Only…

An inspiration caught from dubious… Filled him, and mystic wrynesses h… For they lead farther than the sin… Wave subtler promise when desire p… The moon of cloud discoloured was…

Unhappy poets of a sunken prime! You to reviewers are as ball to ba… They shadow you with Homer, knock… With Shakespeare: bludgeons brain… On you the excommunicates of Rhym…

Should thy love die; O bury it not under ice-blue eyes! And lips that deny, With a scornful surprise, The life it once lived in thy brea…

Give to imagination some pure ligh… In human form to fix it, or you sh… The devils with that hideous human… Imagination urging appetite! Thus fallen have earth’s greatest…

Close Echo hears the woodman’s ax… To double on it, as in glee, With clap of hands, and little lac… Of meaning in her repartee. For all shall fall,

It is the season of the sweet wild… My Lady’s emblem in the heart of… So golden-crownèd shines she glor… And with that softest dream of blo… Mild as an evening heaven round H…

I cannot lose thee for a day, But like a bird with restless wing My heart will find thee far away, And on thy bosom fall and sing, My nest is here, my rest is here;…

Know you the low pervading breeze That softly sings In the trembling leaves of twiligh… As if the wind were dreaming on it… And have you marked their still de…

Ask, is Love divine, Voices all are, ay. Question for the sign, There’s a common sigh. Would we, through our years,

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…

How low when angels fall their bla… Our primal thunder tells: known is… Of music, that nigh throning wisdo… And one false note cast wailful to… Now seems the language heard of L…