Madam, you have done well! Let others with praise unholy, Speech addressed to a woman who never breathed upon earth, Daub you over with lies or deafen your ears with folly,...
Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray; For though you pine your life away With dull complaining breath, Or speed with song and wine each day, Still, still your doom is death. ...
Poet, whose words are like the tight-packed seed Sealed in the capsule of a silver flower, Still at your art we wonder as we read, The art dynamic charging each word with power. ...
The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame, Breathes once and, quench'd faster than it came, Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song....
'Tis not too late to build our young land right, Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan, Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers, Hearths that will recreate the breed called man.
What ogive gates from gold of Ophir wrought, What walls of bastioned Parian, lucid rose, What marts of crystal, for the eyes of Thought Hast builded on what Islands of Repose!...
Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes, Not with flatteries, but truths, Which tarnish not, but purify To light which dims the morning's eye. I have come from the spring-woods,...
"I saw a sky of stars that rolled in grime. All glory twinkled through some sweat of fight, From each tall chimney of the roaring time That shot his fire far up the sooty night...
What you give me, I cheerfully accept, A little sustenance, a hut and garden, a little money these, as I rendezvous with my poems; A traveler's lodging and breakfast as I journey through The States,...
It lies before me there, and my own breath Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside The living head I stood in honoured pride, Talking of lovely things that conquer death....
There is delight in singing, tho' none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone And see the prais'd far off him, far above....
Sweet Singer that I loe the maist O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste O' hinnied sang, I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist In Heaven lang! ...
Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg: Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;)...
I call no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, And all the tribute of my heart returns, For boons accorded, goodness ever new,...
(From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: "I am just finishing my 'Faun's Holiday.' I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.")