My father was the whipper-in, - Is still if I'm not misled? And now I see, where the hedge is thin, A little spot of red; Surely it is my father Going to the kennel-shed! ...
A stranger, I threaded sunken-hearted A lamp-lit crowd; And anon there passed me a soul departed, Who mutely bowed. In my far-off youthful years I had met her,...
"Why do you stand in the dripping rye, Cold-lipped, unconscious, wet to the knee, When there are firesides near?" said I. "I told him I wished him dead," said she.
Did he who drew her in the years ago - Till now conceived creator of her grace - With telescopic sight high natures know, Discern remote in Time's untravelled space ...
These flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd, Sir or Madam, A little girl here sepultured. Once I flit-fluttered like a bird Above the grass, as now I wave In daisy shapes above my grave, All day cheerily,...
When I set out for Lyonnesse, A hundred miles away, The rime was on the spray, And starlight lit my lonesomeness When I set out for Lyonnesse A hundred miles away. ...
Why did I sketch an upland green, And put the figure in Of one on the spot with me? - For now that one has ceased to be seen The picture waxes akin To a wordless irony. ...
SCENE. - A wide stretch of fallow ground recently sown with wheat, and frozen to iron hardness. Three large birds walking about thereon, and wistfully eyeing the surface. Wind keen from north-east: sky a dull grey. ...
Never a careworn wife but shows, If a joy suffuse her, Something beautiful to those Patient to peruse her, Some one charm the world unknows Precious to a muser,...