The sun is weary, for he ran So far and fast to-day; The birds are weary, for who sang So many songs as they? The bees and butterflies at last Are tired out, for just think too...
Ah! did you ever hear the Spring Calling you through the snow, Or hear the little blackbird sing Inside its egg - or go To that green land where grass begins, Each tiny seed, to grow? ...
When winter comes and takes away the rose, And all the singing of sweet birds is done, The warm and honeyed world lost deep in snows, Still, independent of the summer sun, In vain, with sullen roar,...
Is it the Spring? Or are the birds all wrong That play on flute and viol, A thousand strong, In minstrel galleries Of the long deep wood, Epiphanies Of bloom and bud. ...
Singers all along the street, Singing every kind of song - One man's song is honey-sweet, One man's song is hammer-strong; Yet, however sweet the singing, However strong the hammer-swinging, -...
Had I the gold that some so vainly spend, For my lost loves a temple would I raise, A shrine for each dear name: there should ascend Incense for ever, and hymns of golden praise;...
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,...
Yea, it is best, dear friends, who have so oft Fed full my ears with praises sweet and soft, Sweeter and softer than my song should win, Too sweet and soft - I must not listen more,...
When the fierce bugle thrilled alarm, From lands apart these fighters came. An equal courage nerved each arm, And stirred each generous heart to flame.
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. ...
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...
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...