Tom—garlanded with squat and surly… Tom; then Tom’s fallowbootfellow… By him and rips out rockfire homef… Tom Heart—at—ease, Tom Navvy: he… Sure, ’s bed now. Low be it: lust…
May is Mary’s month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season— Candlemas, Lady Day;
I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and… And a few lilies blow. And I have asked to be
Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, yo… With your fresh thoughts care for,… Ah! as the heart grows older
My window shews the travelling clo… Leaves spent, new seasons, alter’d… The making and the melting crowds: The whole world passes; I stand b… They do not waste their meted hour…
Now Time’s Andromeda on this rock… With not her either beauty’s equal… Her injury’s, looks off by both ho… Her flower, her piece of being, do… Time past she has been attempted a…
Cloud—puffball, torn tufts, tossed… Built thoroughfare: heaven—royster… Down roughcast, down dazzling whit… Shivelights and shadowtackle ín lo… Delightfully the bright wind boist…
God with honour hang your head, Groom, and grace you, bride, your… With lissome scions, sweet scions, Out of hallowed bodies bred. Each by other’s comfort kind:
The Eurydice—it concerned thee, O… Three hundred souls, O alas! on b… Some asleep unawakened, all un— warned, eleven fathoms fallen Where she foundered! One stroke
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring… When weeds, in wheels, shoot long… Thrush’s eggs look little low heav… Through the echoing timber does so… The ear, it strikes like lightning…
I caught this morning morning’s mi… dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple—… Of the rolling level underneath hi… High there, how he rung upon the r… In his ecstasy! then off, off fort…
Glory be to God for dappled thing… For skies of couple—colour as a br… For rose—moles all in stipple upon… Fresh—firecoal chestnut—falls; fin… Landscape plotted and pieced– fold…
Though no high—hung bells or din Of braggart bugles cry it in— What is sound? Nature’s round Makes the Silver Jubilee. Five and twenty years have run
Thou that on sin’s wages starvest, Behold we have the joy in harvest: For us was gather’d the first frui… For us was lifted from the roots, Sheaved in cruel bands, bruised so…
Not of all my eyes see, wandering… Is anything a milk to the mind so,… Poetry to it, as a tree whose boug… Say it is ashboughs: whether on a… Fast ór they in clammyish lashtend…