Hark, in the steeple the dull bell… Over the furrows ill ploughed by… Hark the bird-babble, the loud lar… Hark, from the sky, what the proph… Hark, in the pines, the free Wind…

An unborn bird lies crumpled and c… A-dreaming of the world. Round it, for castle-wall, a shell Is guarding it well. Hope

I.-THIS SIDE AN’ THAT. The rich man sat in his father’s s… Purple an’ linen, an’ a’thing fine… The puir man lay at his yett i’ th… Sairs an’ tatters, an’ weary pine!

Nobody knows the world but me. The rest go to bed; I sit up and… I’m a better observer than any of… For I never look out till the twi… And never then without green glass…

WHAT though my words glance side… Which I would utter in thine ear,… Truth in the inward parts thou dos… Wise hunger, not a fitness fine of… The little child that clamouring f…

Comes there, O Earth, no breathin… No pause upon thy many-chequered l… Now resting on my bed with listles… I mourn thee resting not. Continu… Hear I the plashing borders of th…

From off the earth the vapours cur… Went up to meet their joy; The boy awoke, and all the world Was waiting for the boy! The sky, the water, the wide earth

I shall be satisfied With the seeing of thy face. When I awake, wide-eyed, I shall be satisfied With what this life did hide,

When I am dead unto myself, and l… O Father, thee live on in me, Contented to do nought but pay my… And leave the house to thee, Then shall I be thy ransomed-from…

O Father, I am in the dark, My soul is heavy-bowed: I send my prayer up like a lark, Up through my vapoury shroud, To find thee,

The silence of traitorous feet! The silence of close-pent rage! The roar, and the sudden heart-bea… And the shot through the true hear… The truest heart of the age!

Forth to his study the sculptor go… In a mood of lofty mirth: ‘Now shall the tongues of my carpi… Confess what my art is worth! In my brain last night the vision…

My wife contrived a fleecy thing Her husband to infold, For ’tis the pride of woman still To cover from the cold: My daughter made it a new text

Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and… And who would blame me then?- Fear of the tide of darkness

Ah, truant, thou art here again,… For in a season of such wretched w… I thought that thou hadst left us… Although I could not choose but f… Skulking about the hill-tops, when…