The Eurydice—it concerned thee, O… Three hundred souls, O alas! on b… Some asleep unawakened, all un— warned, eleven fathoms fallen Where she foundered! One stroke
The fine delight that fathers thou… Spur, live and lancing like the bl… Breathes once and, quenchèd faster… Leaves yet the mind a mother of im… Nine months she then, nay years, n…
Sometimes a lantern moves along th… That interests our eyes. And who… I think; where from and bound, I… With, all down darkness wide, his… Men go by me whom either beauty br…
My own heart let me more have pity… Me live to my sad self hereafter k… Charitable; not live this tormente… With this tormented mind tormentin… I cast for comfort I can no more…
Moonless darkness stands between. Past, the Past, no more be seen! But the Bethlehem—star may lead m… To the sight of Him Who freed me From the self that I have been.
Repeat that, repeat, Cuckoo, bird, and open ear wells,… With a ballad, with a ballad, a re… Off trundled timber and scoops of… The whole landscape flushes on a s…
May is Mary’s month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season— Candlemas, Lady Day;
‘But tell me, child, your choice;… You?’—‘Father, what you buy me I… With the sweetest air that said, s… He swung to his first poised purpo… What the heart is! which, like car…
HAVE, fair fallen, O fair, fair… To me, so arch—especial a spirit a… An age is now since passed, since… Of the outward sentence low lays h… Not mood in him nor meaning, proud…
Love I was shewn upon the mountai… And bid to catch Him ere the drop… See, Love, I creep and Thou on w… Love it is evening now and Thou a… Love, it grows darker here and Th…
Thou mastering me God! giver of breath and bread; World’s strand, sway of the sea; Lord of living and dead; Thou hast bound bones & veins in m…
When will you ever, Peace, wild w… Your round me roaming end, and und… When, when, Peace, will you, Peac… To own my heart: I yield you do c… That piecemeal peace is poor peace…
Not of all my eyes see, wandering… Is anything a milk to the mind so,… Poetry to it, as a tree whose boug… Say it is ashboughs: whether on a… Fast ór they in clammyish lashtend…
Hark, hearer, hear what I do; len… We are leafwhelmed somewhere with… Of some branchy bunchy bushybowere… Southern dene or Lancashire cloug… That leans along the loins of hill…
Some candle clear burns somewhere… I muse at how its being puts bliss… With yellowy moisture mild night’s… Or to—fro tender trambeams truckle… By that window what task what fing…