I climbed a hill as light fell sho… And rooks came home in scramble so… And filled the trees and flapped a… And sang themselves to sleep; An owl from nowhere with no sound

The morning that my baby came They found a baby swallow dead, And saw a something, hard to name, Flit moth-like over baby’s bed. My joy, my flower, my baby dear

“How fared you when you mortal wer… What did you see on my peopled sta… “Oh well enough,” I answered her, “It went for me where mortals are! ”I saw blue flowers and the merlin…

A few tossed thrushes save That carolled less than cried Against the dying rave And moan that never died, No bird sang then; no thorn,

Not baser than his own homekeeping… Whose journeyman he is - Blind sons and breastless daughter… Whose darkness pardons his, - About the world, while all the wor…

I climbed a hill as light fell sho… And rooks came home in scramble so… And filled the trees and flapped a… And sang themselves to sleep; An owl from nowhere with no sound

The world’s gone forward to its la… And dropt an old man done with by… To sit alone among the bats and st… At miles and miles and miles of mo… Lit only with last shreds of dying…

The old gilt vane and spire receiv… The last beam eastward striking; The first shy bat to peep at eve Has found her to his liking. The western heaven is dull and gre…

He begged and shuffled on; Sometimes he stopped to throw A bit and benison To sparrows in the snow, And clap a frozen ear

If you could bring her glories bac… You gentle sirs who sift the dust And burrow in the mould and must Of Babylon for bric-a-brac; Who catalogue and pigeon-hole

The leaves looked in at the window Of the house across the way, At a man that had sinned like you… And all poor human clay. He muttered: 'In a gambol

It’s sixty years ago, the people s… Two village children, neighbours b… One morning played beneath a rotte… That came down crash and caught th… And one was killed and one was lef…

Now one and all, you Roses, Wake up, you lie too long! This very morning closes The Nightingale his song; Each from its olive chamber

The book was dull, its pictures As leaden as its lore, But one glad, happy picture Made up for all and more: ’Twas that of you, sweet peasant,