Books and a coloured skein of thou
And magic words lay ripening in my
Till their much-whispered music tu
Whose subtlest power was all in my
These things were mine, and they w

Oh wind-swept towers,
Oh endlessly blossoming trees,
White clouds and lucid eyes,
And pools in the rocks whose unplu
With who knows what of subtlety

White in the moonlight,
Wet with dew,
We have known the languor
Of being two.
We have been weary

In the middle of countries, far fr
Are the little places one passes b
And never stops at; where the skie
Uninterrupted, and the level plain
Stretch green and yellow and green

Fine as the dust of plumy fountain
Across the lanterns of a revelling
The tiny leaves of April’s earlie
Powder the trees—so vaporously lig
They seem to float, billows of eme

Still life, still life ... the hig
Hard and sharp on the bottles: the
Stands firmly solid in the glasses
Smooth yellow ice, through which t
The lamp’s bright pencil of down-s

Sitting on the top of the 'bus,
I bite my pipe and look at the sky
Over my shoulder the smoke streams
And my life with it.
“Conservation of energy,” you say.

All fly—yet who is misanthrope?—
The actual men and things that pas
Jostling, to wither as the grass
So soon: and (be it heaven’s hope,
Or poetry’s kaleidoscope,

A petal drifted loose
From a great magnolia bloom,
Your face hung in the gloom,
Floating, white and close.
We seemed alone: but another

Day after day,
At spring’s return,
I watch my flowers, how they burn
Their lives away.
The candle crocus