'Our little babe,' each said, 'shall be Like unto thee' - 'Like unto thee!' 'Her mother's' - 'Nay, his father's' - 'eyes,' 'Dear curls like thine' - but each replies, 'As thine, all thine, and nought of me.'...
"Is she still beautiful?" I asked of one Who of the unforgotten faces told That for long years I had not looked upon - "Beautiful still - but she is growing old"; And for a space I sorrowed, thinking on...
On drives the road - another mile! and still Time's horses gallop down the lessening hill O why such haste, with nothing at the end! Fain are we all, grim driver, to descend...
O bird that somewhere yonder sings, In the dim hour 'twixt dreams and dawn, Lone in the hush of sleeping things, In some sky sanctuary withdrawn; Your perfect song is too like pain,...
You that would break with the Past, Why with so rude a gesture take your leave? None hinders, go your way; but wherefore cast Contempt and boorish scorn Upon the womb from which even you were born?...
And is it true indeed, and must you go, Set out alone across that moorland track, No love avail, though we have loved you so, No voice have any power to call you back?...
Strange little spring, by channels past our telling, Gentle, resistless, welling, welling, welling; Through what blind ways, we know not whence You darkling come to dance and dimple - Strange little spring!...
As one, the secret lover of a queen, Watches her move within the people's eye, Hears their poor chatter as she passes by, And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen;...
They took away your drink from you, The kind old humanizing glass; Soon they will take tobacco too, And next they'll take our demi-tasse. Don't say, "The bill will never pass,"...
Our tears, our songs, our laurels - what are these To thee in thy Gethsemane of loss, Stretched in thine unimagined agonies On Hell's last engine of the Iron Cross. ...
You with the hawk's eyes and the nerves of steel, How was it with you when the hurried word Roused you and sent you swiftly forth to deal A blow for justice? Sure your pulses stirred,...
O loveliest face, on which we look our last - Not without hope we may again behold Somewhere, somehow, when we ourselves have passed Where, Lucy, you have gone, this face so dear,...