Love grasps my heart in a net Like the strong roots of a flower; So surely his root is set In my spirit, to hold me with powe… Yet to—night, O forgive me, Dear!

How dark, how quiet sleeps the val… In the dim farms, look, not a wind… Distantly heard among the lonely p… How soft the languid autumn breeze… Past me, and kiss my hair, and che…

Nothing of itself is in the still’… A still submission to each exterio… Still as a pool, accepting trees a… A candid mirror that never a breat… Nor drifted leaf,—as if of a singl…

When I am weary, thronged with th… That tease as harsh winds tease th… I still my mind at evening and put… But the image of my Love, where a… The thoughts of her fall gently as…

I lay upon my bed in the great nig… The sense of my body drowsed; But a clearness yet lingered in th… By soft obscurity housed. As an inn to a traveller on a long…

O what magic shall compare Of the fresh earth or bright air To the joy that love around My full heart so swift has wound, Far beyond hope’s trembling flight

The beeches towering high Greenly cloud the sky. The shadows all are green With living sun unseen. O wonderful the sound

Stooping over London, skies convu… With thunder moved: a rumour of st… Hushed them, and birds flew troubl… Up from the West climbing, above… Glowed sullen as copper embossed;…

Slowly the dawn a magic paleness d… From windows dim; the Pillar high… Over dark statues and dumb fountai… A shadow on the solitary square. They that all night, dozing disqui…

Deep in these thoughts, more tende… Whose light ebbs far as in futurit… Deep, deeper yet my blessed spirit… Singing of you still; you and only… Gave me to breathe and touch and t…

Man, simple and brave, easily conf… Giving his all, glad of the sun’s… Heeding little of pitiful incomple… Mending life with laughter and che… Where is he?—I see him not, but I…

Lament no more, my heart, lament n… Though all these clouds have cover… And thou, so far from shore, Art baffled in mid flight; Still proudly as in joy through so…

Of a tower, of a tower, white In the warm Italian night, Of a tower that shines and springs I dream, and of our delight. Of doves, of a hundred wings

The mist has fallen over the isles… And Ruan turns his boat for home. The wind is down; with an oar he s… The narrow races, where at whiles To left or right through fog he he…

The Golden Gallery lifts its aery… O’er dome and pinnacle: there I l… Is this indeed my own familiar tow… This busy dream? Beneath me sprea… In distance large it lay, nor noth…