When winter comes and takes away t… And all the singing of sweet birds… The warm and honeyed world lost de… Still, independent of the summer s… In vain, with sullen roar,

AH, London! London! our delight, Great flower that opens but at nig… Great City of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done. Lamp after lamp against the sky

Wild bird, I stole you from your… And cannot find your nest again; To hear you chirp a little while I wrung your mother’s heart with p… And here you sit and droop and die…

May is back, and You and I Are at the stream again— The leaves are out, And all about The building birds begin

The woods we used to walk, my love… Are woods no more, But’ villas’ now with sounding nam… All name and door. The pond, where, early on in Marc…

Water in hidden glens From the secret heart of the mount… Where the red fox hath its dens And the gods their crystal fountai… Up runnel and leaping cataract,

When leaf and flower are newly mad… And bird and butterfly and bee Are at their summer posts again; When all is ready, lo! ’tis she, Suddenly there after soft rain–

‘This hot, hard flame with which o… Will make some meadow blaze with d… Ay! and those argent breasts of th… To water-lilies; the brown fields… Will be more fruitful for our love…

Precious the box that Mary brake Of spikenard for her Master’s sak… But ah! it held nought half so dea… As the sweet dust that whitens her… The greater wonder who shall say:

The world is wide-around yon court… Where dirty little children play, Another world of street on street Grows wide and wider every day. And round the town for endless mil…

The human heart will never change, The human dream will still go on, The enchanted earth be ever strang… With moonlight and the morning sun… And still the seas shall shout for…

God gave us an hour for our tears, One hour out of all the years, For all the years were another’s g… Given in a cruel troth of old. And how did we spend his boon?

Our tears, our songs, our laurels—… To thee in thy Gethsemane of loss… Stretched in thine unimagined agon… On Hell’s last engine of the Iron… For such a world as this that thou…

When last I saw this opening rose That holds the summer in its hand, And with its beauty overflows And sweetens half a shire of land, It was a black and cindered thing,