All things are wrought of melody, Unheard, yet full of speaking spel… Within the rock, within the tree, A soul of music dwells. A mute symphonic sense that thrill…

A barren field o’ergrown with thor… It stays for him who waits for hel… Only the soul that makes a plough… Shall know what blossoms underneat…

WHAT shall her silence keep Under the sun? Here, where the willows weep And waters run; Here, where she lies asleep,

Death rides black-masked to-night;… Madness beside him brandishes a to… The peaceful farmhouse with its vi… Lies in their way. Death lifts a… And knocks, and Madness makes a w…

Dull, dimly gleaming, The dawn looks downward Where, flowing townward, The river, steaming With mist, is hidden:

From hill and hollow, side by side… The shadows came, like dreams, to… And watch, mysterious, sunset-eyed… The wool-winged moths and bats afl… And the lone owl that cried and cr…

When by the wall the tiger-flower… A head of sultry slumber and aroma… And by the path, whereon the blown… Its obsolete beauty, the long lili… White place of perfume, like a bea…

They who maintained their rights, Through storm and stress, And walked in all the ways That God made known, Led by no wandering lights,

In the woods, not long ago, Met with Robin Goodfellów; First we heard his horse-like laug… In an ivy-bush near by; Then we saw him, like a calf,

The Winter Wind, the wind of deat… Who knocked upon my door, Now through the keyhole entereth, Invisible and hoar: He breathes around his icy breath

WHEN pearl and gold, o’er deeps… The moon curves, silvering the dus… As in a garden, dreaming, A lily slips its dewy husk A firefly in its gleaming,—

Here is a tale for prelates and fo… There was a scarecrow once, a thin… And sticks and straw, to whom men… Of weighty moment murders, thefts… None saw he was a scarecrow. Ever…

Inspiration. All who have toiled for Art, who’… Sat equal priests at her high Pen… Only the chrism and sacrament of f… Anointing all, inspired not all th…

The day is dead; and in the west The slender crescent of the moon Diana’s crystal-kindled crest Sinks hillward in a silvery swoon. What is the murmur in the dell?

The hills are full of prophecies And ancient voices of the dead; Of hidden shapes that no man sees, Pale, visionary presences, That speak the things no tongue ha…