A Sonnet is a moment’s monument, Memorial from the Soul’s eternity To one dead deathless hour. Look… Whether for lustral rite or dire p… Of its own arduous fulness reveren…

BETWEEN Holmscote and Hurstcot… The river—reaches wind, The whispering trees accept the br… The ripple’s cool and kind; With love low—whispered 'twixt the…

I. HERSELF To be a sweetness more desired tha… A bodily beauty more acceptable Than the wild rose—tree’s arch tha… To be an essence more environing

OLTRE tomba Qualche cosa? E che ne dici? Saremo felici? Terra mai posa,

What of her glass without her? Th… There where the pool is blind of t… Her dress without her? The tossed… Of cloud—rack whence the moon has… Her paths without her? Day’s appo…

O leave your hand where it lies co… Upon the eyes whose lids are hot: Its rosy shade is bountiful Of silence, and assuages thought. O lay your lips against your hand

HERE writ was the World’s Histo… Whose steps knew all the earth; al… In these few piteous paces then wa… Here daily, hourly, have his proud… This smaller speck than the recedi…

Look in my face; my name is Might… I am also call’d No—more, Too—lat… Unto thine ear I hold the dead—se… Cast up thy Life’s foam—fretted f… Unto thine eyes the glass where th…

“Who rules these lands?” the Pilg… “Stranger, Queen Blanchelys.” “And who has thus harried them?” h… “It was Duke Luke did this: God’s ban be his!”

Watch thou and fear; to—morrow tho… Or art thou sure thou shalt have t… Is not the day which God’s word p… To come man knows not when? In yo… Now while we speak, the sun speeds…

THOU fill’st from the winged cha… Thy lamp, O Memory, fire—winged t…

On this sweet bank your head thric… I lay, and spread your hair on eit… And see the newborn wood flowers b… Look through the golden tresses he… On these debateable borders of the…

Even as a child, of sorrow that we… The dead, but little in his heart… Since without need of thought to h… Their turn it is to die and his to… Even so the winged New Love smile…

DERE was an old nigger, and him… And him tale was rather slow; Me try to read de whole, but me on… Because me found it no go. Den hang up de auther Mrs. Stowe,

The gloom that breathes upon me wi… Is like the drops which stike the… Who knows not, darkling, if they b… Fresh storm, or be old rain the co… Ah! bodes this hour some harvest o…