I Marlowe, the father of the sons of song Whose praise is England's crowning praise, above All glories else that crown her, sweet and strong As England, clothed with light and fire of love,...
Sark, fairer than aught in the world that the lit skies cover, Laughs inly behind her cliffs, and the seafarers mark As a shrine where the sunlight serves, though the blown clouds hover, Sark. ...
Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see; Let the dew-fall drench either side of me; Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moon Seen sidelong like a blossom in the tree;...
"Return," we dare not as we fain Would cry from hearts that yearn: Love dares not bid our dead again Return. O hearts that strain and burn As fires fast fettered burn and strain!...
Bill, I feel far from quite right if not further: already the pill Seems, if I may say so, to bubble inside me. A poet's heart, Bill, Is a sort of a thing that is made of the tenderest young bloom on a fruit....
Last high star of the years whose thunder Still men's listening remembrance hears, Last light left of our fathers' years, Watched with honour and hailed with wonder Thee too then have the years borne under,...
Italia, mother of the souls of men, Mother divine, Of all that served thee best with sword or pen, All sons of thine, Thou knowest that here the likeness of the best Before thee stands,...
I Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell, and the splendour of winter had passed out of sight, The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger than dreams that fulfil us in sleep with delight;...
A life more bright than the sun's face, bowed Through stress of season and coil of cloud, Sets: and the sorrow that casts out fear Scarce deems him dead in his chill still shroud,...
I Was it light that spake from the darkness, or music that shone from the word, When the night was enkindled with sound of the sun or the first-born bird?...
I. Lord of light, whose shine no hands destroy, God of song, whose hymn no tongue refuses, Now, though spring far hence be cold and coy, Bid the golden mouths of all the Muses...
I laid my laurel-leaf At the white feet of grief, Seeing how with covered face and plumeless wings, With unreverted head Veiled, as who mourns his dead,...
When the might of the summer Is most on the sea; When the days overcome her With joy but to be, With rapture of royal enchantment, and sorcery that sets her not free, But for hours upon hours...
I Who may praise her? Eyes where midnight shames the sun, Hair of night and sunshine spun, Woven of dawn's or twilight's loom, Radiant darkness, lustrous gloom,...
One of twain, twin-born with flowers that waken, Now hath passed from sense of sun and rain: Wind from off the flower-crowned branch hath shaken One of twain. ...
If all the flowers of all the fields on earth By wonder-working summer were made one, Its fragrance were not sweeter in the sun, Its treasure-house of leaves were not more worth...