Time, hurry my Love to me: Haste, haste! Lov’st not good co… Here’s but a heart-break sandy was… ‘Twixt Now and Then. Why, killi… Were best, dear Time, for thee, f…

So one in heart and thought, I tr… That thou might’st press the strin… And both would meet in music sweet… Thou and I, I trow.

Swift, through some trap mine eyes… Dim-panelled in the painted scene… Thou, giant Harlequin of Dreams,… Upon my spirit’s stage. Then Sig… Then Space and Time, then Langua…

(Killed at Surrey C. H., October… . . . . . Dear friend, forgive a wild lament Insanely following thy flight. I would not cumber thine ascent

Hey, rose, just born Twin to a thorn; Was’t so with you, O Love and Sc… Sweet eyes that smiled, Now wet and wild:

Now haste thee while the way is cl… Paul Revere! Haste, Dawes! but haste thee not,… To Lexington. Then Devens looked and saw the li…

From the German of Heine. In the far North stands a Pine-tr… Upon a wintry height; It sleeps: around it snows have t… A covering of white.

Written for the “Martha Washingto… Down cold snow-stretches of our bi… When windy shams and the rain-mock… Of Trade have cased us in such ic… That hearts are scarcely hot enoug…

It was three slim does and a ten-t… And all of a sudden the sinister s… Awaft on a wind-shift, wavered and… Down the hill-side and sifted alon… Then Nan got a-tremble at nostril…

I.—Red. Would that my songs might be What roses make by day and night— Distillments of my clod of misery Into delight.

By Sidney and Clifford Lanier. O wish that’s vainer than the plas… Of these wave-whimsies on the shor… “Give us a pearl to fill the gash— God, let our dead friend live once…

Sometimes in morning sunlights by… Where in the early fall long grass… Light winds from over the moorland… And sigh as if just blown across a… And then I pause and listen to th…

Over the monstrous shambling sea, Over the Caliban sea, Bright Ariel-cloud, thou lingeres… Oh wait, oh wait, in the warm red… Thy Prospero I’ll be.

Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chi… Complain no more; for these, O he… Direct the random of the will As rhymes direct the rage of art. The lute’s fixt fret, that runs at…