So now your tale of years is done, Old Fluff, my friend, and you have won, Beyond our land of mist and rain, Your way to the Elysian plain, Where through the shining hours of heat...
Kisses are long forgotten of this twain, Kisses and words - the sweet small prophecies That run before the Lord of Love: the fain Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes,...
Poet of doom, dementia, and death, Of beauty singing in a charnel house, Like the lost soul of a poor moon-mad maid, With too much loving of some lord of hell;...
Like winds that with the setting of the sun Draw to a quiet murmuring and cease, So is her little struggle fought and done; And the brief fever and the pain In a last sigh fade out and so release...
Tested and staunch through many a changing year, Gelert, his master's faithful hound, lies here. Humble in friendship, but in service proud, He gave to man whate'er his lot allowed;...
Silence, whose drowsy eyelids are soft leaves, And whose half-sleeping eyes are the blue flowers, On whose still breast the water-lily heaves, For all her speech the whisper of the showers. ...
Fly, little note, And know no rest Till warm you lie Within that nest Which is her breast; Though why to thee Such joy should be Who carest not, While I must wait Here desolate,...
Her eyes are bluebells now, her voice a bird, And the long sighing grass her elegy; She who a woman was is now a star In the high heaven shining down on me.
Must I believe this beauty wholly gone That in her picture here so deathless seems, And must I henceforth speak of her as one Tells of some face of legend or of dreams,...
'We're going home!' I heard two lovers say, They kissed their friends and bade them bright good-byes; I hid the deadly hunger in my eyes, And, lest I might have killed them, turned away....
How fast the year is going by! Love, it will be September soon; O let us make the best of June. Already, love, it is July; The rose and honeysuckle go, And all too soon will come the snow. ...
This life I squander, hating the long days That will not bring me either Rest or Thee, This health I hack and ravage as with knives, These nerves I fain would shatter, and this heart...
I know not in what place again I'll meet The face I love - but there is not a street In the wide world where you can wander, sweet, Without my finding you, with those great eyes;...
A little book, this grim November day, Wherein, O tired heart, to creep away, - Come drink this wine and wear this fadeless rose, Nor heed the world, nor what the world shall say. ...
Dear Heart, what thing may symbolise for us A love like ours, what gift, whate'er it be, Hold more significance 'twixt thee and me Than paltry words a truth miraculous; Or the poor signs that in astronomy...
Go, little book, and be the looking-glass Of her dear soul, The mirror of her moments as they pass, Keeping the whole; Wherein she still may look on yesterday To-day to cheer,...