Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding;...
In the attic, unused, there they put it away; The old oaken frame has begun to decay; What iron's about it is eaten with rust, And upon and around it are cobwebs and dust;...
He held himself splendidly forward Both early and late; The aim of his purpose was starward, To master his fate: So he wrought and he toiled and he waited, Till he rose o'er the hordes that he hated,...
How he sleepeth! having drunken Weary childhood's mandragore, From his pretty eyes have sunken Pleasures, to make room for more Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before. ...
Slient and amazed, even when a little boy, I remember I heard the preacher every Sunday put God in his statements, As contending against some being or influence.
Praise of the knights of old May sleep: their tale is told, And no man cares: The praise which fires our lips is A knight's whose fame eclipses All of theirs.
The sun is weary, for he ran So far and fast to-day; The birds are weary, for who sang So many songs as they? The bees and butterflies at last Are tired out, for just think too...
She had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world,...
What will it please you, my darling, hereafter to be? Fame upon land will you look for, or glory by sea? Gallant your life will be always, and all of it free. ...
Here a little child I stand Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on us all. Amen.
All the bells of heaven may ring, All the birds of heaven may sing, All the wells on earth may spring, All the winds on earth may bring All sweet sounds together; Sweeter far than all things heard,...
Through long nursery nights he stood By my bed unwearying, Loomed gigantic, formless, queer, Purring in my haunted ear That same hideous nightmare thing, Talking, as he lapped my blood,...
No sweeter thing than children's ways and wiles, Surely, we say, can gladden eyes and ears: Yet sometime sweeter than their words or smiles Are even their tears. ...
How low soe'er men rank us, How high soe'er we win, The children far above us Dwell, and they deign to love us, With lovelier love than ours, And smiles more sweet than flowers;...
Thou art home at last, my darling one, Flushed and tired with thy play, From morning dawn until setting sun Hast thou been at sport away; And thy steps are weary - hot thy brow,...