#English
You would have understood me, had… I could have loved you, dear! as w… Had we not been impatient, dear! a… Always to disagree. What is the use of speech? Silenc…
(For Arthur Symons) I was not sorrowful, I could not… And all my memories were put to sl… I watched the river grow more whit… All day till evening I watched it…
Exceeding sorrow Consumeth my sad heart! Because to-morrow We must depart, Now is exceeding sorrow
Let be at last; give over words an… Vainly were all things said: Better at last to find a place for… Only dead. Silence were best, with songs and…
Beyond the need of weeping, Beyond the reach of hands, May she be quietly sleeping, In what dim nebulous lands? Ah, she who understands!
‘A little, _passionately, not at a… She casts the snowy petals on the… And what care we how many petals f… Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to… It is but playing, and she will no…
All the moon-shed nights are over, And the days of gray and dun; There is neither may nor clover, And the day and night are one. Not an hamlet, not a city
COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL Into the lonely park all frozen fa… Awhile ago there were two forms wh… Lo, are their lips fallen and thei… Hardly shall a man hear the words…
They sleep well here, These fisher-folk who passed their… In fierce Atlantic ways; And found not there, Beneath the long curled wave,
Calm, sad, secure; behind high con… These watch the sacred lamp, these… And it is one with them when eveni… And one with them the cold return… These heed not time; their nights…
With delicate, mad hands, behind h… Surely he hath his posies, which t… Those scentless wisps of straw, th… His strait, caged universe, wherea… Pedant and pitiful. O, how his ra…
Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, On all the passages of sense, The atoning oil is spread with swe… Renewal of lost innocence. The feet, that lately ran so fast
Strange grows the river on the sun… The river comforts me, grown spect… Long was the day; at last the cons… _Sufficient for the day are the da… Labour and longing and despair the…
Love’s aftermath! I think the tim… That we must gather in, alone, apa… The saddest crop of all the crops… Love’s aftermath. Ah, sweet,—sweet yesterday, the te…
What is Love? Is it a folly, Is it mirth, or melancholy? Joys above, Are there many, or not any?