Beautifully dies the year. Silence sleeps upon the mere: Yellow leaves float on it, stilly As, in June, the opened lily. Brushing o’er the frosty grass

O wailing gust, what hast thou bro… What sting of desolation? But an… And brave was every shy new—opened… Smiling in sun beneath a budding t… Now over black hills the skies sto…

Deep Italian day with a wide—wash… Umbria green with valleys, blue wi… Dim in the south Soracte, a far r… Rumours Rome, that of old spoke o… Mountain shouldering mountain circ…

When your head leans back slowly,… Muse earnest upon mine and starry… With depths unfathomed that still… And the words fail, and sight with… Whence comes that almost sadness,…

Violets, in what pleasant earth yo… I know not, nor what heavenly mois… To tincture in your petals such di… As seems a pure June midnight’s s… But on her bosom when you breathed…

Love, like cordial wine, Pouring his soul in mine, Bids me to sing; Youth’s bright glory snatch, And Time’s paces match

Because thou art nearest To the mystery of the fire That is Earth’s and the soul’s And the body’s desire, Whereof we were made

‘Haste thee, Harold, haste thee N… Norway ships in Humber crowd. Tall Hardrada, Sigurd’ son, For thy ruin this hath done— England for his own hath vowed.

On the road to Ypres, on the long… Marching strong, We’ll sing a song of Ypres, of he… And her wrong. Proud rose her towers in the old t…

I dream of western waters, and of… And of mornings when they appear Flowering out of the mist on a sea… Warm and familiar and near. Then O how changed! fugitive, fai…

To whom but thee, my youth to dedi… My youth, which these few leaves h… Should I now come, although I com… Alas! and can but lay them on thy… To whom but thee? From thee, I kn…

Trefoil and Quatrefoil! What shaped those destinied small… Or numbered them under the soil? I lift my dazzled sight From grass to sky,

The bare branches rose against the… Under them, freshly fallen, snow s… Up the hill—slope, over the brow i… Spreading an immaterial beauty to… In the elbow of black boughs it cl…

In drooping leaves of the plane Hangs blue the early heat; Stirless, a delicate shade Sleeps on the parching street. I wander this listless morning

What shall I say to thee, my spir… Unaccountably conquered, where tho… Life, that, yesterday, the sun’s o… Darkened now, like a train of capt… Alas! ’tis an old trouble, vainly…