Oh, Mignon’s mouth is like a rose… A red, red rose, that half uncurls Sweet petals o’er a crimson bee: Or like a shell, that, opening, sh… Within its rosy curve white pearls…

Small twilight singer Of dew and mist: thou ghost-gray,… Of dusk’s dim glimmer, How chill thy note sounds; how thy… Vibrate, soft-sighing,

Above her, pearl and rose the heav… Around her, flowers flattered eart… Or down the path in insolence held… Like cavaliers who ride the king’s… Scarlet and buff, within a garden…

They’ve torn the old house down, t… Like some kind mother, in this pla… Hugged by its orchard and its wood… Two sturdy children, strong of rac… This formal place makes no appeal.

The mornings raise Voices of gold in the Almighty’s… The sunsets soar In choral crimson from far shore t… Each is a blast,

The moth and beetle wing about The garden ways of other days; Above the hills, a fiery shout Of gold, the day dies slowly out, Like some wild blast a huntsman bl…

Here is a tale for spinsters at th… There was a goose, a little goslin… Who went her goose-girl way and lo… As every goose should when ’tis wi… Proper was she as every gosling sh…

It seemed the listening forest hel… Before some vague and unapparent f… Of fear, approaching with the wing… On the impending storm. Above the hills, big, bellying clo…

Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts o… Of gold and purple in the marbled… Thou comest forth like some embodi… Or dim conceit, a lily bud confess… Or of a rose the visible wish; tha…

Universes are the pages Of that book whose words are ages; Of that book which destiny Opens in eternity. There each syllable expresses

This was my dream: It seemed the afternoon Of some deep tropic day; and yet t… Stood round and bright with golden… High in a heaven bluer than the se…

God made that night of pearl and i… Perfect and holy as a holy thought Born of perfection, dreams, and ec… In love and silence wrought. And she, who lay where, through th…

Joy’s is the magic sweet, That makes Youth’s pulses beat, Puts music in young feet, The old heart hears, the sad heart… And Joy’s the pleasant pain,

There is no inspiration in the vie… From where this acorn drops its th… The landscape stretches like a sha… The wrinkled hills hang haggard an… Above them hollows the heaven’s st…

Why speak of Giamschid rubies Whence rosy starlight drips? I know a richer crimson, The ruby of her lips. Why speak of pearls of Oman