That hour when thou and Grief were first acquainted Thou wrotest, "Come, for I have lookt on death." Piteous I held my indeterminate breath And sought thee out, and saw how he had painted...
Sing of the end of Troy, and of that flood Of passion by the blood Of heroes consecrate, by poet's craft Hallowed, if that thin waft Of godhead blown upon thee stretch thy song...
In June I brought her roses, and she cupt One slim bud in her hand and cherisht it, And put it to her mouth. Rose and she supt Each other's sweetness; but the flower was lit...