All the flowers cannot weave A garland worthy of your hair, Not a bird in the four winds Can sing of you that is so fair. Only the spheres can sing of you;

When the Sun and the Golden Day Hand in hand are gone away, At your door shall Sleep and Nigh… Come and knock in the fair twiligh… Let them in, twin travellers blest…

War I abhor, And yet how sweet The sound along the marching stree… Of drum and fife, and I forget

(To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hin… Say not—'She once was fair;' beca… Have changed her beauty to a holie… No girl hath such a lovely face as… That hoards the sweets of many a v…

The peril of fair faces all his da… No man shall 'scape: be it for joy… Each is the thrall of some predest… Divinely doomed to work his overth… Transiently fair, as flowers in ga…

A battered swordsman, slashed and… I scarce had thought to fight agai… But love of the old game dies hard… So to’t, my lady, if you’re fain! I’m scarce the mettle to refrain,

How fast the year is going by! Love, it will be September soon; O let us make the best of June. Already, love, it is July; The rose and honeysuckle go,

Let’s go to market in the moon, And buy some dreams together, Slip on your little silver shoon, And don your cap and feather; No need of petticoat or stocking—

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

The Cry of the Little Peoples we… The Czech and the Pole, and the… We ask but a little portion of the… Only to sow and sing and reap in t… We ask not coaling stations, nor p…

One asked of regret, And I made reply: To have held the bird, And let it fly; To have seen the star

_You that would break with the Pa… Why with so rude a gesture take yo… None hinders, go your way; but whe… Contempt and boorish scorn Upon the womb from which even you…

My love said she had nought to wea… Her garments all were old, And soon her body must go bare Against the winter’s cold. I took her out into the dawn,

The sun is weary, for he ran So far and fast to-day; The birds are weary, for who sang So many songs as they? The bees and butterflies at last

The floating call of the cuckoo, Soft little globes of bosom-shaped… Came and went at the window; And, out in the great green world, Those maidens each morn the flower…