The rain-clouds have gone to the deep The East like a furnace doth glow; And the day-spring is flooding the steep, And sheening the landscape below. Oh, ye who are gifted with souls...
The wasting thistle whitens on my crest, The barren grasses blow upon my spear, A green, pale pennon: blazon of wild faith And love of fruitless things: yea, of my love,...
Because I am mad about women I am mad about the hills," Said that wild old wicked man Who travels where God wills. "Not to die on the straw at home. Those hands to close these eyes, That is all I ask, my dear, From the old man ...
In a waste of yellow sand, on the brow of a dreary hill, A slight little slip of a rose struggled up to the light, The seed maybe was sown there by the south wind's idle will,...
The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine and fifty swans. ...
If what old story says of Aesop's true, The oracle of Greece he was, And more than Areopagus[2] he knew, With all its wisdom in the laws. The following tale gives but a sample...
A song for the willow, the wild weeping willow, That murmurs a dirge to the rapturous days, And moans when the kiss of the breeze laden billow Entangles and dangles among the sad sprays!...
Lush green the grass that grows between The willows of the bottom-land; Verged by the careless water, tall and green, The brown-topped cat-tails stand.
There once was a Willow, and he was very old, And all his leaves fell off from him, and left him in the cold; But ere the rude winter could buffet him with snow,...
The skies they were ashen and sober, The streets they were dirty and drear; It was night in the month of October, Of my most immemorial year. Like the skies, I was perfectly sober,...
Deep in the hollow wood he found a way Winding unto a water, dim and gray, Grayer and dimmer than the break of day; By which a wildrose blossomed; flower on flower Leaning above its image hour on hour,...
Ah! no, no, it is nothing, surely nothing at all, Only the wild-going wind round by the garden-wall, For the dawn just now is breaking, the wind beginning to fall.
Blow harder, wind, and drive My blood from hands and face back to the heart. Cry over ridges and down tapering coombs, Carry the flying dapple of the clouds Over the grass, over the soft-grained plough,...