I dwell, with all things great and… The green earth and the lustral ai… The sacred spaces of the sea, Day in, day out, companion me. Pure-faced, pure-thoughted, folk a…

Love, art thou lonely to-day? Lost love that I never see, Love that, come noon or come night… Comes never to me; Love that I used to meet

Blue flower waving in the wind, Say whose blue eyes Lift up your swaying fragile stem To the blue skies. Is she a queen that lies asleep

Crickets calling, Apples falling. Summer dying, Life is flying. So soon over–

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…

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

(TO I——a) When rumour fain would fright my e… With the destruction and decay Of things familiar and dear, And vaunt of a swift-running day

Doth it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thou art, To feel how I press thy singing Close to my heart?- Take it at night to my pillow,

I see fair women all the day, They pass and pass-and go; I almost dream that they are shade… Within a shadow-show. Their beauty lays no hand on me,

Shadows! the only shadows that I… Are happy shadows of the light of… The radiance immortal shining thro… Your sea-deep eyes up from the sou… Your shadow, like a rose’s, on the…

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,

(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…

So sang young Love in high and ho… Of a white Love that hath no eart… So rapt within his vision he did s… Less like a boyish singer than a s… Ah, Boy, it is a dream for life t…

There is too much beauty upon this… For lonely men to bear, Too many eyes, too enchanted skies… Too many things too fair; And the man who would live the lif…

(TO EDMUND GOSSE) Still towards the steep Parnassia… The moon-led pilgrims wend, Ah, who of all that start to-day Shall ever reach the end?