#English
When the embalmer closed my eyes, And all the family went in black, And shipped me off to Paradise, I had no thought of coming back; I dreamed of undisturbed repose
FOR THE BEATRICE CELEB… Nine mystic revolutions of the sph… Since Dante’s birth, and lo! a st… Shining in heaven: and like a lark… Springing to meet it, straight in…
‘How many queens have ruled and pa… Since first we met; How thick and fast The letters used to come at first, How thin at last;
What of the darkness? Is it very… Are there great calms and find ye… Like soft-shut lilies all your fac… With some strange peace our faces… With some great faith our faces ne…
We that were born, beloved, so far… So many seas and lands, The gods, one sudden day, joined h… Locked hands in hands, Distance relented and became our f…
Crickets calling, Apples falling. Summer dying, Life is flying. So soon over–
One asked of regret, And I made reply: To have held the bird, And let it fly; To have seen the star
Songs I sang of lordly matters, Life and death, and stars and sea; Nothing of them now remains But the song I sang for thee. Vain the learned elaborate metres,
I saw him in a picture, and I fel… He stood in line, The man ‘for mine,’ A tall silk-hatted 'guy’— Right on the call,
Sometimes my idle heart would roam Far from its quiet happy nest, To seek some other newer home, Some unaccustomed Best: But ere it spreads its foolish win…
An animalcule in my blood Rose up against me as I dreamed, He was so tiny as he stood, You had not heard him, though he s… He cried ‘There is no Man!’
We thought that winter, love, woul… That the dark year had slain the i… Nor hoped that your soft hand, thi… Would lie, as now, in mine, belove… And, like some magic spring, your…
Why should I ask perfection of th… That have so little of mine own to… That thou art beautiful from head… Is that, beloved, such a little th… That I should ask more of thee, a…
Dear city in the moonlight dreamin… How changed and lovely is your fac… Where is the sordid busy scheming That filled all day the market-pla… Was it but fancy that a rabble
War I abhor, And yet how sweet The sound along the marching stree… Of drum and fife, and I forget