The Fays that to my christ’ning c… (For come they did, my nurses taug… They did not bring me wealth or fa… ’Tis very little that they brought… But one, the crossest of the crew,

Thine eyes are like the sea, my de… The wand’ring waters, green and gr… Thine eyes are wonderful and clear… And deep, and deadly, even as they… The spirit of the changeful sea

‘Once Cagn was like a father, kin… But He was spoiled by fighting ma… He wars upon the lions in the wood… And breaks the Thunder-bird’s tre… But still we cry to Him,—'We are…

Let others praise analysis And revel in a “cultured” style, And follow the subjective Miss From Boston to the banks of Nile, Rejoice in anti-British bile,

Here stand my books, line upon lin… They reach the roof, and row by ro… They speak of faded tastes of mine… And things I did, but do not, kno… Old school books, useless long ago…

Of all Gods Death alone Disdaineth sacrifice: No man hath found or shown The gift that Death would prize. In vain are songs or sighs,

Where smooth the southern waters r… By rustling leagues of poplars gre… Beneath a veiled soft southern sun… We wandered out of yesterday, Went maying through that ancient…

There was a knight and lady bright Set trysts amo the broom, The one to come at morning eav, The other at afternoon. ‘I’ll wager a wager wi’ you,' he s…

My Love dwelt in a Northern land. A gray tower in a forest green Was hers, and far on either hand The long wash of the waves was see… And leagues on leagues of yellow s…

When captaines couragious, whom de… Did march to the siege of the citt… They mustred their souldiers by tw… And the formost in battle was Mar… When [the] brave sergeant-major wa…

For thee soft crowns in thine untr… I wove, my lady, and to thee I be… Thither no shepherd drives his flo… Nor scythe of steel has ever labou… Nay, through the spring among the…

Whan he cam to his ain luve’s boui… He tirled at the pin, And sae ready was his fair fause l… To rise and let him in. ‘O welcome, welcome, Sir Roland,’…

Rome does right well to censure al… Talk of Jansenius, and of them wh… That earthly joys are damnable! ’… We need not charge at Heaven as a… No, amble on! We’ll gain it, one…

The wail of Moschus on the mounta… The Muses heard, and loved it lon… They heard the hollows of the hill… They heard the weeping water’s ove… They winged the sacred strain—the…

The painted Briton built his moun… And left his celts and clay, On yon fair slope of sunlit ground That fronts your garden gay; The Roman came, he bore the sway,