"Why do you weep there, O sweet lady, Why do you weep before that brass? - (I'm a mere student sketching the mediaeval) Is some late death lined there, alas? -...
The grey gaunt days dividing us in twain Seemed hopeless hills my strength must faint to climb, But they are gone; and now I would detain The few clock-beats that part us; rein back Time, ...
Lifelong to be Seemed the fair colour of the time; That there was standing shadowed near A spirit who sang to the gentle chime Of the self-struck notes, I did not hear, I did not see. ...
He used to pass, well-trimmed and brushed, My window every day, And when I smiled on him he blushed, That youth, quite as a girl might; aye, In the shyest way....
They are not those who used to feed us When we were young - they cannot be - These shapes that now bereave and bleed us? They are not those who used to feed us, - For would they not fair terms concede us?...
Since Reverend Doctors now declare That clerks and people must prepare To doubt if Adam ever were; To hold the flood a local scare; To argue, though the stolid stare, That everything had happened ere...
Once more the cauldron of the sun Smears the bookcase with winy red, And here my page is, and there my bed, And the apple-tree shadows travel along....
I heard a small sad sound, And stood awhile amid the tombs around: "Wherefore, old friends," said I, "are ye distrest, Now, screened from life's unrest?"
Warm yellowy-green In the blue serene, How they skip and sway On this autumn day! They cannot know What has happened below, - That their boughs down there Are already quite bare,...
The wind blew words along the skies, And these it blew to me Through the wide dusk: "Lift up your eyes, Behold this troubled tree, Complaining as it sways and plies; It is a limb of thee. ...
Now that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe, Never to press thy cosy cushions more, Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore, Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me:
Why be at pains that I should know You sought not me? Do breezes, then, make features glow So rosily? Come, the lit port is at our back, And the tumbling sea; Elsewhere the lampless uphill track...