No man hath dared to write this th
And yet I know, how that the soul
At times pass athrough us,
And we are melted into them, and a
Save reflexions of their souls.

I even I, am he who knoweth the r
Through the sky, and the wind ther
I have beheld the Lady of Life,
I, even I, who fly with the swall
Green and gray is her raiment,

The ways are green with the gladde
Of the young year’s fairest daught
O, the shadows that fleet o’er the
O, the magic of running water!
The spirit of spring is in every t

While the west is paling
Starshine is begun.
While the dusk is failing
Glimmers up the sun.
So, till darkness cover

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

Gladstone was still respected,
When John Ruskin produced
‘King’s Treasuries’; Swinburne
And Rossetti still abused.
Foetid Buchanan lifted up his voi

The gilded phaloi of the crocuses
are thrusting at the spring air.
Here is there naught of dead gods
But a procession of festival,
A procession, Giulio Romano,

We flash across the level.
We thunder thro’ the bridges.
We bicker down the cuttings.
We sway along the ridges.
A rush of streaming hedges,

For three years, out of key with h
He strove to resuscitate the dead
Of poetry; to maintain “the sublim
In the old sense. Wrong from the
No, hardly, but seeing he had been

The Sword
Singing -
The voice of the Sword from the h
Clanging imperious
Forth from Time’s battlements