Shall we wake one morn of spring, Glad at heart of everything, Yet pensive with the thought of ev… Then the white house shall we leav… Pass the wind-flowers and the bays…

Laden Autumn here I stand Worn of heart, and weak of hand: Nought but rest seems good to me, Speak the word that sets me free.

I KNOW a little garden-close, Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy morn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

TRANSLATED FROM THE DAN… Hellelil sitteth in bower there, None knows my grief but God alone… And seweth at the seam so fair, I never wail my sorrow to any othe…

I heard men saying, Leave hope an… All days shall be as all have been… To-day and to-morrow bring fear an… The never-ending toil between. When Earth was younger mid toil a…

A STORY FROM THE LAN… At Deildar-Tongue in the autumn-t… So many times over comes summer ag… Stood Odd of Tongue his door besi… What healing in summer if winter b…

Hot August noon: already on that… Since sunrise through the Wiltshi… Of mouth and eye, he had gone leag… Ay and by night, till whether good… He was, he knew not, though he kne…

O muse that swayest the sad North… Thy right hand full of smiting &am… Thy left hand holding pity; &… Heaving with hope of that so certa… Thou, with the grey eyes kind and…

Spring am I, too soft of heart Much to speak ere I depart: Ask the Summer-tide to prove The abundance of my love.

Sad-Eyed and soft and grey thou a… Across the long grass of the marsh… Thy west wind whispers of the comi… Thy lark forgets that May is grow… Above the lush blades of the sprin…

It was a knight of the southern la… Rode forth upon the way When the birds sang sweet on eithe… About the middle of the May. But when he came to the lily-close…

Of Heaven or Hell I have no powe… I cannot ease the burden of your f… Or make quick-coming death a littl… Or bring again the pleasure of pas… Nor for my words shall ye forget y…

Pear-tree. By woodman’s edge I faint and fai… By craftsman’s edge I tell the ta… Chestnut-tree. High in the wood, high o’er the ha…

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood, In haste and hurry to be there, Nought seem its leaves and blossom… For all that they be fashioned fai… But looking up, at last we see

So swift the hours are moving Unto the time unproved: Farewell my love unloving, Farewell my love beloved! What! are we not glad-hearted?