Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and… The snow!

Have yet forgot, sweet birds, How near the heaven’s lie? Drooping, sick-pinion’d, oh Have yet forgot the sky? The air that once I knew

Grey gaolers are my griefs That will not let me free; The bitterness of tears Is warder unto me. I may not leap or run;

Thou beautiful and ivory gates That shut my tears away from me - Even, at last, such refuge yield That great, safe doors of Ebony.

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sigh… Of Greece.

‘WHY do You thus devise Evil against her?’ ‘For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore.’

Oh me, Was there a time When Paradise knew Eve In this sweet guise, so placid and

Dost thou Not feel them slip, How cold! how cold! the moon’s Thin wavering finger-tips, along Thy throat?

Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and

Little my lacking fortunes show For this to eat and that to wear; Yet laughing, Soul, and gaily go! An obol pays the Stygian fare. London, 1910

The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land. .alack The little people in the hills Will die!

As I went, as I went Over the mountains, I heard, I heard, Through cloud-wreath and mist, A hound that was baying -

Keep thou Thy tearless watch All night but when blue-dawn Breathes on the silver moon, then… Then weep!

Heard ye the maidens Went through the meadows, Early, O, early, While yet the dew was Wet on the grass?

Burdock, Blue aconite, And thistle and thorn. .of these Singing I wreathe my pretty wreat… O’death.