Works

All her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn,
Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her home
No longer know her step on the upland tracks forlorn
Where she was wont to roam.
...

She has an early morning of her own,
A blending of the mist and sea and sun
Into an undistinguishable one,
And Saint Sophia, from her lordly throne

Rises above the opalescent cloud,...

I would not venture to dispraise or praise.
Too well I know the indifference which bounds
A poet in the narrow working-grounds
Where he is blind and deaf in all his ways.
...