Winter that hath few friends yet n… Of spirit erect and delicate of ey… All may applaud sweet Summer, wit… And Autumn, with her banners in t… But when from the earth’s cheek th…

To James Ashcroft Noble, Poet and Critic, a small acknowle… unforgotten kindness Inscriptions Poet, a truce to your song!

(To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hin… Say not—'She once was fair;' beca… Have changed her beauty to a holie… No girl hath such a lovely face as… That hoards the sweets of many a v…

Why did you go away without one wo… Wave of the hand, or token of good… Nor leave some message for me with… Some sign to find you by; Some stray of blossom on the winte…

(TO EDMUND GOSSE) Still towards the steep Parnassia… The moon-led pilgrims wend, Ah, who of all that start to-day Shall ever reach the end?

I am so fair that wheresoe’er I w… Men yearn with strange desire to k… Stretch out their hands to touch m… And women follow me from place to… A poet writing honey of his dear

Singers all along the street, Singing every kind of song– One man’s song is honey-sweet, One man’s song is hammer-strong; Yet, however sweet the singing,

(TO L. AND H.H.) O you that dwell 'mid farm and fol… Yet keep so quick undulled a heart… I send you here that book of gold, So loved so long;

Brother that ploughs the furrow I… God give thee grace, and fruitful… Tis fair sweet earth, be it under… And all about it ever the birds si… Yet do I pray your seed fares not…

The Décadent was speaking to his… Poor useless thing, he said, Why did God burden me with such a… The body were enough, The body gives me all.

War I abhor, And yet how sweet The sound along the marching stree… Of drum and fife, and I forget

On drives the road-another mile! a… Time’s horses gallop down the less… O why such haste, with nothing at… Fain are we all, grim driver, to d… And stretch with lingering feet th…

I’m not sorry I am older, love—ar… Over all youth’s fuss and flurry, All its everlasting hurry, All its solemn self-importance and… Perhaps we missed the highest reac…

All beauty is but thee in echo-sha… No lovely thing but echoes some of… Vainly some touch of thy perfectio… Sighing as fair as thou thyself to… Therefore, be not disquieted that…

How thick the grass, How green the shade– All for love And lovers made. Wood-lilies white