The olden golden stories of the world, That stirred the past, And now are dim as dreams, The lays and legends which the bards unfurled In lines that last, All -- rhymed with glooms and gleams....
Oh the Kings of earth have mobilised their men. See them moving, valour proving, To the fields of glory going, Banners flowing, bugles blowing, Every one a mother's son, Brave with uniform and gun,...
Backwoods cabin, opera house from the pines awash with stars, skullduggery in place over spruce hills dredged to open revolt against invading plough - where greenest leaves...
Why do we grudge our sweets so to the living Who, God knows, find at best too much of gall, And then with generous, open hands kneel, giving Unto the dead our all? ...
Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau; Mock on, mock on; 'tis all in vain! You throw the sand against the wind, And the wind blows it back again. And every sand becomes a gem...
At Wibsey Slack lived modest Jack, No daat yo knew him weel; His cheeks wor red, his een wor black, His limbs wor strong as steel. His curly hair wor black as jet, His spirits gay an glad,...
Agatha, tell me, could your heart take flight From this black city, from this filthy sea Off to some other sea, where splendour might Burst blue and clear-a new virginity?...
Agatha, tell me, does thy heart not ache, Plunged in this squalid city's filthy sea, For another ocean where the splendours break Blue, clear, and deep as is virginity....
"Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high, Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone?...
'Tis morning over Norridgewock, On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred At intervals by breeze and bird, And wearing all the hues which glow...
Ah! weary Priest! with pale hands pressed On thy throbbing brow of pain, Baffled in thy life-long quest, Overworn with toiling vain, How ill thy troubled musings fit The holy quiet of a breast...
I asked if I should pray. But the Brahmin said, "pray for nothing, say Every night in bed, ""I have been a king, I have been a slave, Nor is there anything. Fool, rascal, knave,...
No more summer for Molly and me; There is snow on the tree, And the blackbirds plump large as the rooks are, almost, And the water is hard Where they used to dip bills at the dawn ere her figure was lost...
"Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two, And ten is the number of Muses; For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,-- My dear little Molly Trefusis!"