Forever am I conscious, moving he… That should I step a little space… I pass the boundary of some glorif… Invisible domain—it lies so near! Yet nothing know we of that dim fr…

MASKS BLACK Tragedy lets slip her gri… And shows you laughing lips and ro… But when, unmasked, gay Comedy ap… How wan her cheeks are, and what h…

Touched with the delicate green of… Or later, when the rose uplifts he… The world hangs glittering in star… Fresh as a jewel found but yesterd… And yet ’tis very old; what tongue…

I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, and sound win… The Roederer chilly to a charm, As Juno’s breath the claret warm, The sherry of an ancient brand.

Shakespeare and Milton—what third… Shall lips of after-ages link to t… His who, beside the wide encirclin… Was England’s voice, her voice wi… For threescore years; whose word o…

When to oft sleep we give ourselve… And in a dream as in a fairy bark Drift on and on through the enchan… To purple daybreak—little thought… To that sweet bitter world we know…

Now there was one who came in late… To play at Emperor: in the dead o… Stole crown and sceptre, and stood… In sudden purple. The dawn’s stra… Showed Paris fettered, murmuring…

A PASTORAL SCENE: A roadside in Arcady SHEPHERD. Good sir, have you seen pass this… A mischief straight from market-da…

THE rain has ceased, and in my ro… The sunshine pours an airy flood; And on the church’s dizzy vane The ancient cross is bathed in blo… From out the dripping ivy leaves,

Who is Lydia, pray, and who Is Hypatia? Softly, dear, Let me breathe it in your ear— They are you, and only you. And those other nameless two

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL,… I held his letter in my hand, And even while I read The lightning flashed across the l… The word that he was dead.

Just as the moon was fading Amid her misty rings, And every stocking was stuffed With childhood’s precious things, Old Kriss Kringle looked around,

Who can say where Echo dwells? In some mountain-cave, methinks, Where the white owl sits and blink… Or in deep sequestered dells, Where foxglove hangs its bells,

SOMEWHERE—in desolate wind-swe… In Twilight-land—in No-man’s land… Two hurrying Shapes met face to f… And bade each other stand. “And who are you?” cried one a-gap…

Not of desire alone is music born, Not till the Muse wills is our pa… Unsought she comes; if sought, but… Repaying thus our longing with her… Hence is it poets often are forlor…