There is too much beauty upon this earth For lonely men to bear, Too many eyes, too enchanted skies, Too many things too fair; And the man who would live the life of a man...
Let all things vanish, if but you remain; For if you stay, beloved, what is gone? Yet, should you go, all permanence is vain, And all the piled abundance is as none. ...
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,...
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...
Hail and Farewell, dear Brother of the Pen, Maker of sunshine for the minds of men, Lord of bright cheer and master of our hearts - What plaint is fit when such a friend departs?...
I thought, before my sunlit twentieth year, That I knew Love, and Death that goes with it; And my young broken heart in little songs, Dew-like, I poured, and waited for my end...
Mammon is this, of murder and of gold, To-day, to-morrow, and ever from of old, Th' Almighty God, and King of every land. Man 'neath his foot, and woman 'neath his hand,...
O spirit of Life, by whatsoe'er a name Known among men, even as our fathers bent Before thee, and as little children came For counsel in Life's dread predicament, Even we, with all our lore,...
Within that wood where thine own scholar strays, O! Poet, thou art passed, and at its bound Hollow and sere we cry, yet win no sound But the dark muttering of the forest maze...
May is back, and You and I Are at the stream again - The leaves are out, And all about The building birds begin To make a merry din: May is back, and You and I Are at the dream again. ...
May is building her house. With apple blooms She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, And, spinning all day at her secret looms,...
Let's go to market in the moon, And buy some dreams together, Slip on your little silver shoon, And don your cap and feather; No need of petticoat or stocking - No one up there will think it shocking....
Morn hath a secret that she never tells: 'Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes - I think it is the way to Paradise, Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells. The bee hath no such honey in her cells...
What are my books? - My friends, my loves, My church, my tavern, and my only wealth; My garden: yea, my flowers, my bees, my doves; My only doctors - and my only health.