If one could have that little head… Painted upon a background of pale… Such as the Tuscan’s early art pr… No shade encroaching on the matchl… Of those two lips, which should be…

I’ve a Friend, over the sea; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I wr… They find such favour in his sight That he slaughters you with savage…

Si credere dignum est.—Virgil,… Oh, worthy of belief I hold it wa… Virgil, your legend in those stran… No question, that adventure came t… One black night in Arcadia: yes,…

O’ Lyric Love, half angel and hal… And all a wonder and a wild desire… Boldest of hearts that ever braved… Took sanctuary within the holier b… And sang a kindred soul out to his…

I said—-Then, dearest, since 'tis… Since now at length my fate I kno… Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant fo… Since this was written and needs m…

OUT of your whole life give but a… All of your life that has gone bef… All to come after it,—so you ignor… So you make perfect the present,—c… In a rapture of rage, for perfecti…

It is a lie—their Priests, their… Their Saints, their... all they f… Are lies, and lies—there! through… And ceiling, there! and walls and… There, lies, they lie—shall still…

Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill,

Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught—speak truth—abov… Aught like this tress, see, and th… And this last fairest tress of all…

. MARCHING ALONG. Kentish Sir Byng stood for his K… Bidding the crop-headed Parliamen… And, pressing a troop unable to st… And see the rogues flourish and ho…

Heap Cassia, sandal-buds and stri… Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared with dull nard an Indian… From out her hair: such balsam fal… Down sea-side mountain pedestals,

Verse-making was least of my virtu… Wealth that never yet was but migh… If the life would but lengthen to… So I said, “To do little is bad,… And made verse.

June was not over Though past the fall, And the best of her roses Had yet to blow, When a man I know

THUS the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth; Sleep 's no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads… On and on, whate’er befall,