WHO are these strange small folk, These that come to our homes as ki… Asking nor leave nor grace, Bending our necks to their yoke, Taking the highest place,

When the sap runs up the tree, And the vine runs o’er the wall, When the blossom draws the bee, From the forest comes a call, Wild, and clear, and sweet, and st…

CAMILLA calls me heartless: hen… Logic in love has little part. How can I otherwise than heartles… Seeing Camilla has my heart?

These broken lines for pardon crav… I cannot end the song with art: My grief is gray and old—her grave Is dug so deep within my heart. IT was a day of sombre heat:

GOOD fellows are laughing and dr… (To-night no heart should grieve), But I am of old days thinking, Alone, on Christmas Eve. Old memories fast are springing

CARE is a Poet fine: He works in shade or shine, And leaves—you know his sign!— No day without its line. He writes with iron pen

The night is young yet; an enchan… In early summer: calm and darkly b… I love the Night, and every littl… She brings, to soothe the sleep of… Hearst thou the Voices? Sough! S…

The Muse who comes each morning In rozy gauze is clad; Her head is crowned with flowers, Her eyes are clear and glad. Upon her virgin bosom

O DAY, the crown and crest of al… Thou comest not to us amid the sno… But midmost of the reign of the re… Our hearts have not yet lost the a… That filled our fathers’ simple he…

THE DAYS go by—the days go by, Sadly and wearily to die: Each with its burden of small care… Each with its sad gift of gray hai… For those who sit, like me, and si…

A child came singing through the d… A song so sweet that all men staye… Forgetting for a space their ancie… Of evil days and death and fortune… She sang of Winter dead and Sprin…

WHEN the moon a golden-pale Lustre on my casement flings, An enchanted nightingale In the haunted silence sings. Strange the song—its wondrous word…

IN my garden, O Beloved! Many pleasant trees are growing, Peach, and apricot, and apple, Myrtle, lilac, and laburnum. Fair are they, but midst them lone…

Love is the sunlight of the soul, That, shining on the silken-tressÃ… Of her we love, around it seems to… A golden angel-aureole. And all her ways seem sweeter ways

There is a town in Ireland, A little town I know; Its girls have tender Irish eyes Beneath their brows of snow; And in the field around it