No, mother, I am not sad: Why think me sad? I was always st… You remember, even when my heart w… And you used to let me dream at my… And now I like better to watch th…

OH the yellow boisterous sea, The surging, chafing, murderous se… And the wind-gusts hurtle the torn… On to the south through a shudderi… And the bare black ships scud aloo…

DEAD, my beloved! This small pur… That grows upon thy grave shall ha… To ripen and to wane, to bloom and… But thou, strong doer, mightst not… But thou, oh noblest, mightst not…

BLITHE summer blossom, born too… Wilt make my desert garden fair? Lo Winter’s hand is on the gate, His breath is in the curdling air. Still yesterweek, but yesterweek,

I SET a lily long ago; I watched it whiten in the sun; I loved it well, I had but one. Then summer-time was done, The wind came and the rain,

Dead is he? Yes, our stranger gue… said it by noonday, when it seemed… most natural and so indifferent as if the tale ran that a while ag… there died a man I talked with a c…

SOME quick kind tears, some easy… And then ’tis past. ’Twas sad; yet sadness has its mor… Blue skies succeed skies overcast: Why should grief last?

Seeds with wings, between earth an… Fluttering, flying; Seeds of a lily with blood-red cor… Breathing of myrrh and of giroflor… Where winds drop them there must t…

TOO soon so fair, fair lilies; To bloom is then to wane; The folded bud has still To-morrow at its will; Blown flowers can never blow again…

Spring Stornelli. THE RIVULET. OH clear smooth rivulet, creeping… With backward waves that cling aro… And is thy world beyond the dim bl…

BUT wait. Let each by each the d… One faded and one blown like summe… What need of hope, with summer in… What of regret, with all fair morr… If yesterday be gone, No reck, ’t…

WHAT is it that is dead? Somewhere there is a grave, and so… Cold in the ground, and stirs not… Nor songs that I can make, nor sm… Nor tenderest foolish words that…

She has made me wayside posies: he… Bringing fresh memories of where t… As new-come travellers from a worl… Wake every while some image of the… So these whose buds our woodland b…

NAY, tell me not. I will not kno… Because of her my life is bare, A waste where blow-seeds spring an… Then die because the soil is spent… And leave no token they were there…

Wild wintry wind, storm through th… Dash the black clouds against the… Hiss through the billows seething… Fling the rock-surf in spray on hi… Hurl the high seas on harbour bars…