"Ah Madam; you've indeed come back here? 'Twas sad your husband's so swift death, And you away! You shouldn't have left him: It hastened his last breath."
If he should live a thousand years He'd find it not again That scorn of him by men Could less disturb a woman's trust In him as a steadfast star which must Rise scathless from the nether spheres:...
I skimmed the strings; I sang quite low; I hoped she would not come or know That the house next door was the one now dittied, Not hers, as when I had played unpitied;...
Francois Hippolite Barthelemon, first-fiddler at Vauxhall Gardens, composed what was probably the most popular morning hymn-tune ever written. It was formerly sung, full-voiced, every Sunday in most...
Looking forward to the spring One puts up with anything. On this February day, Though the winds leap down the street, Wintry scourgings seem but play, And these later shafts of sleet...
Orion swung southward aslant Where the starved Egdon pine-trees had thinned, The Pleiads aloft seemed to pant With the heather that twitched in the wind;...
Around the house the flakes fly faster, And all the berries now are gone From holly and cotoneaster Around the house. The flakes fly! - faster Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster...
Why go the east road now? . . . That way a youth went on a morrow After mirth, and he brought back sorrow Painted upon his brow Why go the east road now?
How smartly the quarters of the hour march by That the jack-o'-clock never forgets; Ding-dong; and before I have traced a cusp's eye, Or got the true twist of the ogee over, A double ding-dong ricochetts....
"Instigator of the ruin - Whichsoever thou mayst be Of the masterful of Europe That contrived our misery - Hear the wormwood-worded greeting From each city, shore, and lea Of thy victims:...
I hear the bell-rope sawing, And the oil-less axle grind, As I sit alone here drawing What some Gothic brain designed; And I catch the toll that follows From the lagging bell,...
They sing their dearest songs - He, she, all of them - yea, Treble and tenor and bass, And one to play; With the candles mooning each face . . . Ah, no; the years O!...
At nine in the morning there passed a church, At ten there passed me by the sea, At twelve a town of smoke and smirch, At two a forest of oak and birch, And then, on a platform, she: ...
A day is drawing to its fall I had not dreamed to see; The first of many to enthrall My spirit, will it be? Or is this eve the end of all Such new delight for me? ...