Down through the heart of the dim… The laden, jolting waggons come. Tall pines, chained together, They carry; stems straight and bar… Now no more in their own solitudes

Goethe, who saw and who foretold A world revealed New—springing from its ashes old On Valmy field, When Prussia’s sullen hosts retir…

I think of a flower that no eye ev… That springs in a solitary air. Is it no one’s joy? It is beautif… Without a kingdom’s care. We have built houses for Beauty,…

In the middle of the night, waking… Of the Wind like one riding throu… Moodily riding, ever faster, he re… The windows rattled aloud: a door… And the ear in fear waited to feel…

O there are wanderers over wave an… Invisible and secret, everywhere Moving thro’ light and night from… Swifter than bird or cloud upon th… Wild Longings, from divided bosom…

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…

Within, the pillars soar to gloom Lit by the glimmering Rose ; Spirits of beauty shrined in stone Afar from mortal woes, Hearing not, though their haunted…

Blue noon shines o’er the sea; Waves break starry on the sand; Lights and sounds and scents come… On the radiant air of the land. I am filled with the melody of wav…

The Toy-seller his idle wares Carefully ranges, side by side; With coveting soft earnest airs The children linger, open-eyed. His haunted soul from far away

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

The desert sand at day’s swift fli… Drank of the dew—cold vivid night Where Nile flows as he flowed When first men reaped and sowed As though his stream since Time b…

A grinding swerve, a hissing spurt… And then a droning through the dir… The tram glides on its wonted way Of everyday, of everyday. Past every corner still the same

Ah, now this happy month is gone, Not now, my heart, complain, Nor rail at Time because so soon He takes his own again. He takes his own, the weeks, the h…

Ask me not, Dear, what thing it i… That makes me love you so; What graces, what sweet qualities, That from your spirit flow: For I have but this old reply,

Thump of a horse’s hoof behind the… Long stripes of shadow, and green… Between them; discrowned, glaucous… On their tall stalks; a rose With its great thorns blood—red in…