Once in a dream of Babylon I sat with Lilith and Cain At the world-old drama, "From God to God," In the House of Things Profane; Trumpets and lights, and the players Swung to the stage, and then...
I think to-night I could bear it all, Even the arrow that cleft the core, Could I wait again for your swift footfall, And your sunny face coming in at the door....
A woman waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.
Silent, with hands crost meekly on his breast, Long time, with keen and meditative eye, Stood the old painter of Siena by A canvas, whose sign manual him confest. ...
There are four men mowing down by the Isar; I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I Am sorry for what's in store.
With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, And the winds are one with the clouds and beams - Midsummer days! Midsummer days!...
Spring at her height on a morn at prime, Sails that laugh from a flying squall, Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme - Youth is the sign of them, one and all....
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Pools that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat;...
Where are the passions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow? Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know? Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?...
A twist of fresh flowers on your dark hair, And your hair is a panther's shadow. On your white cheeks the down of a thousand roses, They speak about your beauty in Lahore. You have your mother's lips;...
She has put on her green robe, she has put on her double veil, my idol; My idol has come to me. She has put on her green robe, my love is a laughing flower;...
Bees make their honey out of coloured flowers, Through the June day, with all its beam and scent, Heather of breezy hills, and idle bowers, Brushing soft doors of every blossoming tent,...
I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear; Were I but the morning breeze, healthy and airy, As thou goest a walking I'd breathe in thine ear, And whisper and sigh how I love thee, my Mary! ...