I am too proud of loving thee, too… Of the sweet months and years that… To feign a heart indifferent to th… Too thankful-happy that the gods a… Our orbits cross,

My dryad hath her hiding place Among ten thousand trees. She flies to cover At step of a lover, And where to find her lovely face

The fight I loved—the good old fi… Was clear as day ‘twixt Might and… Satrap and slave on either hand, Tiller and tyrant of the land; One delved the earth the other tro…

The floating call of the cuckoo, Soft little globes of bosom-shaped… Came and went at the window; And, out in the great green world, Those maidens each morn the flower…

When the spring comes again, will… Three springs I watched and waite… And listened for your voice upon t… I sought for you in many a hidden… Saying, ‘She must be there.’

The outside of her garments were o… The lining purple silk, with gilt… Her wide sleeves green, and border… Where Venus in her naked glory st… To please the careless and disdain…

We that were born, beloved, so far… So many seas and lands, The gods, one sudden day, joined h… Locked hands in hands, Distance relented and became our f…

Doth it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thou art, To feel how I press thy singing Close to my heart?- Take it at night to my pillow,

Who will gather with me the fallen… This drift of forgotten forsaken l… Ah! who give ear To the sigh October heaves At summer’s passing by!

AH, London! London! our delight, Great flower that opens but at nig… Great City of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done. Lamp after lamp against the sky

The human heart will never change, The human dream will still go on, The enchanted earth be ever strang… With moonlight and the morning sun… And still the seas shall shout for…

A little book, this grim November… Wherein, O tired heart, to creep… Come drink this wine and wear this… Nor heed the world, nor what the w… A thousand gardens-yet to-day ther…

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

Your birthday, sweetheart, is my b… For, had you not been born, I who began to live beholding you Up early as the morn, That day in June beside the rose-…