Faces of blank decorum, and bald h… And the drone of a voice saying wh… Words like cobwebs, scarcely stirr… Loosely hanging, gray in an unswep… Thoughts belonging to nobody, like…

The early night falls on the plain In cloud and desolating rain. I see no more, but feel around The ruined earth, the wounded grou… There in the dark, on either side

What far—off trouble steals In soft—blown drifts of glimmering… What is it the wind feels, What sighing of what old home—seek… Among the hurried footsteps and th…

Of the old house, only a few, crum… Courses of brick, smothered in net… Or a shaped stone lying mossy wher… Sprawling bramble and saucy thistl… What once was fire-lit floor and p…

In a patch of baked earth At the crumbled cliff’s brink, Where the parching of August Has cracked a long chink, Against the blue void

‘Zeus, and ye Gods, that rule in… Is there naught holy, or to your h… Have ye forgotten utterly to love, Or to be kind, in that untroubled… If aught ye cherish, still by that…

Over fast-closed baby eyes In the garden’s golden air Blossom-white the butterflies Hover, hurry, part and pair, Sudden shinings, flown nowhere!

Move onward, Time, and bring us s… From this self—clouding turmoil wh… On others’ errands driven continua… O lead us to our own souls, ere we… We toil for that we love not; thou…

Along the deep shelve of the aband… Bowed, with slow pace and careful… The track they travel, move an age… The full voice of the Atlantic ho… In turbulent uproar:

Pride is the untrue mask, Shame is a cloak that clings, Tenderness oft is a trammelling ve… Because of truth that stings. O to be stript, and to use

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

Past is the past! But no, it is n… In us, in us, it quickens, wants,… And on our hearts the unknown dead… The hunger and the thirst of their… Unknown the pangs, the peace we to…

O travelled far beyond unhappiness Into a dreadful peace! Why tarriest thou here? The stree… With noon; the music of the tidal… Of London fills the trembling air…

Heroes, whose days are told, Above whose bodies brave Presses the heavy, cold, And quenching wave! Ye sleep: but your bright fame,

As I walked through London, The fresh wound burning in my brea… As I walked through London, Longing to have forgotten, to hard… A sudden consolation, a softening…