Saint Charles! ah yes, let other… Love Elia for his antic pen, And watch with dilettante eyes His page for every quaint surprise… Curious of caviare phrase.

So many times the heart can break, So many ways, Yet beat along and beat along So many days. A fluttering thing we never see,

This is all that is left—this lett… And do you, poor dreaming things,… That your little fire shall burn f… And this great fire be, all but th… Flower! of course she is—but is sh…

What are my books?—My friends, my… My church, my tavern, and my only… My garden: yea, my flowers, my bee… My only doctors—and my only health…

Bees make their honey out of colou… Through the June day, with all it… Heather of breezy hills, and idle… Brushing soft doors of every bloss… Filling gold thighs in drowsy ravi…

(TO GRANT AND NELLIE ALL… Is it the Spring? Or are the birds all wrong That play on flute and viol, A thousand strong,

God gave us an hour for our tears, One hour out of all the years, For all the years were another’s g… Given in a cruel troth of old. And how did we spend his boon?

The afternoon is lonely for your f… The pampered morning mocks the day… I was so rich at noon, the sun was… Mine the sad sea that in that rock… Girded us round with blue betrotha…

Summer gone, Winter here; Ways are white, Skies are clear. And the sun

Unless you come while still the wo… A place of birds and the blue drea… In vain has all the singing summer… Unless you come, and share it all… Ah! come, ere August flames its h…

There blooms a flower in Trebizon… Stored with such honey for the bee… (So saith the antique book I conn… Of such alluring fragrancy, Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree;

FOR THE BEATRICE CELEB… Nine mystic revolutions of the sph… Since Dante’s birth, and lo! a st… Shining in heaven: and like a lark… Springing to meet it, straight in…

The heart of the rose-how sweet Its fragrance to drain, Till the greedy brain Reels and grows faint With the garnered scent,

This is the year that has no Chri… Even the little children must be t… That something sad is happening fa… Or, if you needs must play, As children must,

With Pipe and Book at close of da… Oh, what is sweeter, mortal, say? It matters not what book on knee, Old Izaak or the Odyssey, It matters not meerschaum or clay.