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...
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? ...
Not all my treasure hath the bandit Time Locked in his glimmering caverns of the Past: Fair women dead and friendships of old rhyme, And noble dreams that had to end at last: -...
All the wide world is but the thought of you: Who made you out of wonder and of dew? Was it some god with tears in his deep eyes, Who loved a woman white and over-wise,...
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. ...
April is in the world again, And all the world is filled with flowers - Flowers for others, not for me! For my one flower I cannot see, Lost in the April showers.
As in the woodland I walk, many a strange thing I learn - How from the dross and the drift the beautiful things return, And the fires quenched in October in April reburn; ...
Who will gather with me the fallen year, This drift of forgotten forsaken leaves, Ah! who give ear To the sigh October heaves At summer's passing by! Who will come walk with me...
Friends whom to-night once more I greet, Most glad am I with you to be, And, as I look around, I meet Many a face right good to see; But one I miss - ah! where is he? - Of merry eye and sparkling jest,...
There blooms a flower in Trebizond Stored with such honey for the bee, (So saith the antique book I conned) Of such alluring fragrancy, Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree;...
The peril of fair faces all his days No man shall 'scape: be it for joy or woe, Each is the thrall of some predestined face Divinely doomed to work his overthrow,...
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,...
A battered swordsman, slashed and scarred, I scarce had thought to fight again, But love of the old game dies hard, So to't, my lady, if you're fain! I'm scarce the mettle to refrain,...