’Twas at this season, year by year… The singer who lies songless here Was wont to woo a less austere, Less deep repose, Where Rotha to Winandermere

The mighty poets from their flowin… Dispense like casual alms the care… Through throngs of men their lonel… Let fall their costly thoughts, no… Not mine the rich and showering ha…

Go, Verse, nor let the grass of t… Beneath thy feet iambic. Southwar… O’er Thamesis his stream, nor hal… Thou reach the summit of a suburb… To lettered fame not unfamiliar: t…

So, into Cornwall you go down, And leave me loitering here in tow… For me, the ebb of London’s wave, Not ocean-thunder in Cornish cave… My friends (save only one or two)

Just for a day you crossed my life… Put my ignobler dreams to sudden s… Went your bright way, and left me… On my own world of poorer deed and… To fall back on my meaner world, a…

I know not if they erred Who thought to see The tale of all the times to be, Star-character’d; I know not, neither care,

Ere vandal lords with lust of gold… Deface each hallowed hillside we r… Ere cities in their million-throat… Menace each sacred mere— Let us give thanks because one noo…

Here, peradventure, in this mirror… Who gazes long and well at times b… Some sunken feature of the mummied… But oftener only the embroidered f… And soiled magnificence of her ren…

Inhospitably hast thou entertained… O Poet, us the bidden to thy boar… Whom in mid-feast, and while our t… Are one laudation of the festal ch… Thou from thy table dost dismiss,…

[Mr. Oscar Wilde, having discover… And wilt thou, Oscar, from us fle… And must we, henceforth, wholly se… Shall thy laborious _jeux-d’esprit… Sadden our lives no more for ever?

Well he slumbers, greatly slain, Who in splendid battle dies; Deep his sleep in midmost main Pillowed upon pearl who lies. Ease, of all good gifts the best,

Seven moons, new moons, had eastwa… Averted from the sun; seven moons,… Westward their sun-averted horns h… Since Angelo had brought his youn… Lucia, to queen it in his Tuscan…

England my mother, Wardress of waters. Builder of peoples, Maker of men,- Hast thou yet leisure

O Master, if immortals suffer aug… Of sadness like to ours, and in li… And with like overflow of darkened… Disburden them, I know not; but m… What time to day mine ear the utte…