‘A cup for hope!’ she said, In springtime ere the bloom was ol… The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth’s richer red. ‘A cup for love!’ how low,
I said: This is a beautiful fresh… I said: I will delight me with it… Will watch its lovely curve of lan… Will watch its leaves unclose, its… I said: Old earth has put away he…
O earth, lie heavily upon her eyes… Seal her sweet eyes weary of watch… Lie close around her; leave no roo… With its harsh laughter, nor for s… She hath no questions, she hath no…
It is a land with neither night no… Nor heat nor cold, nor any wind, n… Nor hills nor valleys; but one eve… Stretches thro’ long unbroken mile… While thro’ the sluggish air a twi…
There is but one May in the year, And sometimes May is wet and cold… There is but one May in the year Before the year grows old. Yet though it be the chilliest Ma…
1 and 1 are 2 — That’s for me and you. 2 and 2 are 4 — That’s a couple more. 3 and 3 are 6
If stars dropped out of heaven, And if flowers took their place, The sky would still look very fair… And fair earth’s face. Winged angels might fly down to us
Sleeping at last, the trouble and… Sleeping at last, the struggle and… Cold and white, out of sight of fr… Sleeping at last. No more a tired heart downcast or…
What would I give for a heart of… Instead of this heart of stone ice… Hard and cold and small, of all he… What would I give for words, if o… But now in its misery my spirit ha…
When a mounting skylark sings In the sunlit summer morn, I know that heaven is up on high, And on earth are fields of corn. But when a nightingale sings
Mavel of marvels, if I myself sha… With mine own eyes my King in His… Where the least of lambs is spotle… Where the least and last of saints… Where the dimmest head beyond a mo…
Dead in the cold, a song—singing t… Dead at the foot of a snowberry bu… Weave him a coffin of rush, Dig him a grave where the soft mos… Raise him a tombstone of snow.
Every valley drinks, Every dell and hollow; Where the kind rain sinks and sink… Green of Spring will follow. Yet a lapse of weeks
Flowers preach to us if we will he… The rose saith in the dewy morn: I am most fair; Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn.
Strike the bells wantonly, Tinkle tinkle well; Bring me wine, bring me flowers, Ring the silver bell. All my lamps burn scented oil,