The leaves are many under my feet, And drift one way. Their scent of death is weary and sweet. A flight of them is in the grey Where sky and forest meet.
When I was young, we dwelt in a vale By a misty fen that rang all night, And thus it was the maidens pale I knew so well, whose garments trail Across the reeds to a window light....
On a morning sick as the day of doom With the drizzling gray Of an English May, There were few in the railway waiting-room. About its walls were framed and varnished...
That whisper takes the voice Of a Spirit's compassionings Close, but invisible, And throws me under a spell At the kindling vision it brings; And for a moment I rejoice,...
Pale beech and pine-tree blue, Set in one clay, Bough to bough cannot you Bide out your day? When the rains skim and skip, Why mar sweet comradeship,...
I. Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still.
The barrack-square, washed clean with rain, Shines wet and wintry-grey and cold. Young Fusiliers, strong-legged and bold, March and wheel and march again. The sun looks over the barrack gate,...
The hush of death is on the night. The corn, That loves to whisper to the wind; the leaves, That dance with it, are silent: one perceives No motion mid the fields, as dry as horn....
Ha! My dear! I'm back again - Vendor of Bohemia's wares! Lordy! How it pants a man Climbing up those awful stairs! Well, I've made the dealer say Your sketch might sell, anyway!...
Of the poor bird that cannot fly Kindly you think and mournfully; For prisoners and for exiles all You let the tears of pity fall; And very true the grief should be That mourns the bondage of the free....
In cabin'd ships, at sea, The boundless blue on every side expanding, With whistling winds and music of the waves - the large imperious waves - In such, Or some lone bark, buoy'd on the dense marine,...
With sable wings wide o'er the land night sprinkles the dew of the heavens; And hard by the dark river's strand, in the midst of a tall, somber forest, Two camp fires are lighted and beam...
Ridicula nuper cymba, sicut meus est mos, Flumineas propter salices et murmura Cami, Multa movens mecum, fumo inspirante, iacebam. Illic forte mihi senis occurrebat imago...
When the leaves, by thousands thinned, A thousand times have whirled in the wind, And the moon, with hollow cheek, Staring from her hollow height, Consolation seems to seek...