Take thy lute and sing By the ruined castle walls, Where the torrent-foam falls, And long weeds wave: Take thy lute and sing,

Of me and of my theme think what t… The song of gladness one straight… But I have never stood at Fortune… Were she and her light crew to run… At my poor holding little would be…

Fire in her ashes Ireland feels And in her veins a glow of heat. To her the lost old time, appeals For resurrection, good to greet: Not as a shape with spectral eyes,

Under what spell are we debased By fears for our inviolate Isle, Whose record is of dangers faced And flung to heel with even smile? Is it a vaster force, a subtler gu…

Unhappy poets of a sunken prime! You to reviewers are as ball to ba… They shadow you with Homer, knock… With Shakespeare: bludgeons brain… On you the excommunicates of Rhym…

I, wakeful for the skylark voice i… Or straining for the angel of the… Rebuked am I by hungry ear and si… When I behold one lamp that throu… Goes hourly where most noisome; he…

To them that knew her, there is vi… In these the simple letters of her… To them that knew her not, be it b… So strong a spirit is not of the d…

We have seen mighty men ballooning… And in another moment bump the gro… He falls; and in his measurement i… To count some inches o’er the comm… ’Twas not enough to send him climb…

Sword in length a reaping-hook ama… Harald sheared his field, blood up… ‘Mid the swathes of slain, First at moonrise drank. Thereof hunger, as for meats the k…

A brook glancing under green leave… And full of a gurgling melody ever… Renewed thro’ all changes of Heav… Unceasing in moonlight, but hushed…

[Written for the Charing Cross A… Seen, too clear and historic withi… Frown when the Autumn days strike… They of our mortal diseases find n… Errors they of the soul, past the…

unset worn to its last vermilion h… She that star overhead in slow des… That white star with the front of… He undone in his rays of glory spe… Halo, fair as the bow-shot at his…

Maimed, beggared, grey; seeking an… Of palsy doing task of thanks for… Upon the stature of a God, He whom the Gods have struck bend… Weak words he has, that slip the n…

Musing on the fate of Daphne, Many feelings urged my breast, For the God so keen desiring, And the Nymph so deep distrest. Never flashed thro’ sylvan valley