Come, my songs, let us express our… Let us express our envy for the ma… You are very idle, my songs, I fear you will come to a bad end. You stand about the streets, You…

We’ll go no more a-roving by the l… November glooms are barren beside… The summer flowers are faded, the… We’ll go no more a-roving, lest wo… We’ll go no more a-roving by the l…

1 his papier-mâché, which you see… Saith ’twas the worthiest of edito… Its mind was made up in 'the seven… Nor hath it ever since changed tha… It works to represent that school…

When I behold how black, immortal… Drips from my deathless pen —ah, w… Why should we stop at all for what… There is enough in what I chance… It is enough that we once came tog…

The sands are alive with sunshine, The bathers lounge and throng, And out in the bay a bugle Is lilting a gallant song. The clouds go racing eastward,

Staring corpselike at the ceiling, See his harsh, unrazored features, Ghastly brown against the pillow, And his throat-so strangely bandag… Lack of work and lack of victuals,

As a bathtub lined with white porc… When the hot water gives out or go… So is the slow cooling of our chiv… O my much praised but-not-altogeth…

Your songs? Oh! The little mothers Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn

My City, my beloved, my white! Ah… Listen! Listen to me, and I will… Delicately upon the reed, attend m… Now do I know that I am mad, For here are a million people surl…

Here we are, picking the first fer… And saying: When shall we get bac… Here we are because we have the K… We have no comfort because of thes… We grub the soft fern—shoots,