Rais'd are the dripping oars Silent the boat: the lake, Lovely and soft as a dream, Swims in the sheen of the moon. The mountains stand at its head Clear in the pure June night,...
I travelled to where in her lifetime She'd knelt at morning prayer, To call her up as if there; But she paid no heed to my suing, As though her old haunt could win not...
O hapless day! O wretched day! I hoped you'd pass me by-- Alas, the years have sneaked away And all is changed but I! Had I the power, I would remand You to a gloom condign,...
This heart that flutters near my heart My hope and all my riches is, Unhappy when we draw apart And happy between kiss and kiss: My hope and all my riches, yes! And all my happiness. ...
This world is not conclusion; A sequel stands beyond, Invisible, as music, But positive, as sound. It beckons and it baffles; Philosophies don't know, And through a riddle, at the last,...
Yo've heeard tell abaat th new railrooad aw dar say? It's an age o' steeam is this! Smook nuisance and boilers brustin are ivery-day affairs, an' ivery thing an' ivery body seem to be on at full speed. Aw wonder 'at noabdy inve...
Aw'll nivver get druffen noa mooar, It's th' last time is this, an that's trew,-- For mi booans is all shakkin an sooar, Throo th' craan o' mi hat, to mi shoe.
The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: The "ringer" that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before,...
Talk not, my Lord, of unrequited love, Since love requites itself most royally. Do we not live but by the sun above, And takes he any heed of thee or me?
Through narrow be that old Man's cares, and near, The poor old Man is greater than he seems: For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams; An ample sovereignty of eye and ear....
Not a line of her writing have I, Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby I may picture her there; And in vain do I urge my unsight To conceive my lost prize...
Thou leanest to the shell of night, Dear lady, a divining ear. In that soft choiring of delight What sound hath made thy heart to fear? Seemed it of rivers rushing forth...
Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er; Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken, Thou lovest no more--thou lovest no more.
I had grown weary of him; of his breath And hands and features I was sick to death. Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread; I did not hate him: but I wished him dead....