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…

TO the sea-shell’€™s spiral round ‘€™T is your heart that brings the… The soft sea-murmurs that you hear Within, are captured from your ear… You do poets and their song

GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720 The wind it wailed, the wind it mo… And the white caps flecked the sea… “An’ I would to God,” the skipper… “I had not my boy with me!

When this young Land has reached… And we are gone and all our songs… And naught is left unchanged benea… What other singers shall the womb… Bring forth to reap the sunny slop…

Thus spake his dust (so seemed it… The words): Good friend, for Jesu… (Poor ghost!) To digg the dust en… Then came the malediction on the h… Of whoso dare disturb the sacred d…

“The Southern Transept, hardly kn… DEAN STANLEY Tread softly here; the sacredest o… Are those that hold your poets. K… Are facile accidents of Time and…

To spring belongs the violet, and… Spice of the roses let the summer… Grant me this favor, Muse—all els… That I may not write verse when I… And yet I pray you, Muse, delay t…

The sky is gray as gray may be, There is no bird upon the bough, There is no leaf on vine or tree. In the Neponset marshes now Willow-stems, rosy in the wind,

I’ll not confer with Sorrow Till to-morrow; But Joy shall have her way This very day. Ho, eglantine and cresses

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

A blight, a gloom, I know not wha… Some vague, remote ancestral touch… A fear that is not fear, a pain th… A sense of longing, or of loss, in… A subtle hurt that never pen has w…

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and… Each with its loveliness as with a… Drooped in a florist’s window in a… The first a lover bought. It lay… Like flower on flower, that night,…

Like Crusoe, walking by the lonel… And seeing a human footprint on th… Have I this day been startled, fi… Set in brown mould, and delicately… Spring’s footprint—the first crocu…

Curled up and sitting on her feet. Within the window’s deep embrasure… Is Lydia; and across the street, A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, Watches her buried in her book.

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…