Works

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,...

In an old book I found her face
Writ by a dead man long ago -
I found, and then I lost the place;
So nothing but her face I know,
And her soft name writ fair below.
...

Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair,
Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust -
Thy star-like beauty, dimm'd with earthly dust,
Yet breathing of a purer native air; -...

The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair,
Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty,
To aid a covert purpose, cried "O ye
Approaching Waters of the deep, that share...

They's a kind o' feel in the air, to me.
When the Chris'mas-times sets in.
That's about as much of a mystery
As ever I've run ag'in! -
Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight...

Yes; you contemn the perjur'd maid
Who all your favorite hopes betray'd:
Nor, though her heart should home return,
Her tuneful tongue it's falsehood mourn,
Her winning eyes your faith implore,...

I.

Beneath an old beech-tree
They sat together,
Fair as a flower was she
Of summer weather.
They spoke of life and love,
While, through the boughs above,
The sunlight, like a dove,...

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?
Not death; for who is he?
The porter of my father's lodge
As much abasheth me.

Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or more existences...

If every friend who meditates
In soft, unspoken thought
With winning courtesy and tact
The doing of a kindly act
To cheer some lonely lot,
Were like the friend of whom I dream,...

Who has room for a friend
Who has money to spend,
And a goblet of gold
For your fingers to hold,
At the wave of whose hand
Leap the salmon to land,
Drop the birds of the air,...

He is not John the gardener,
And yet the whole day long
Employs himself most usefully,
The flower-beds among.

He is not Tom the pussy-cat,
And yet the other day,...

A Friendly Address To Mrs. Fry In Newgate.[1]

"Sermons in stones." - As You Like It.
"Out! out! damned spot!" - Macbeth.



I.

I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!...

Sickness brought me this
Thought, in that scale of his:
Why should I be dismayed
Though flame had burned the whole
World, as it were a coal,
Now I have seen it weighed
Against a soul?

I am healthy again. And my tired brain
Is free of oppressive gloom.
My forehead is damp. As though it covered
With dewdrops at the hour of blooming dawn.
I can see again the world rich with light,...

I.

Three men lived yet when this dead man was young
Whose names and words endure for ever one:
Whose eyes grew dim with straining toward the sun,
And his wings weakened, and his angel's tongue...

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
...

Beside a runnel build my shed,
With stubbles cover'd o'er;
Let broad oaks o'er its chimney spread,
And grass-plats grace the door.

The door may open with a string,
So that it closes tight;...

I saw his face to-day; he looks a chief
Who fears not human rage, nor human guile;
Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief,
But in that grief the starlight of a smile....

Once again my songs I sing thee,
Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
Songs of love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
Gladly, sadly bringing;--...

On hospitable thoughts intent
To me the Inner Temple sent
An invitation,
A garden party 'twas to be,
And I accepted readily
And with elation;
Good reason too, but oft the seeds...