Bright baffling Soul, least capturable of themes, Thou, who display'dst a life of common-place, Leaving no intimate word or personal trace Of high design outside the artistry Of thy penned dreams,...
We sat at the window looking out, And the rain came down like silken strings That Swithin's day. Each gutter and spout Babbled unchecked in the busy way...
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 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...
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. ...
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,...
Coomb-Firtrees say that Life is a moan, And Clyffe-hill Clump says "Yea!" But Yell'ham says a thing of its own: It's not "Gray, gray Is Life alway!" That Yell'ham says,...