Always thy book, too late acknowle… Now when thine eyes no earthly pag… Blinded with death, or blinded wit… Of love’s own lore celestial. Sma… Forsooth, for thee to read my eart…

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;

I will walk down to the valley And lay my head in her breast, Where are two white doves, The Queen of Love’s, In a silken nest;

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,

Why should I ask perfection of th… That have so little of mine own to… That thou art beautiful from head… Is that, beloved, such a little th… That I should ask more of thee, a…

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…

‘These things are real,’ said one,… On black and mighty shapes of iron… On murder, on madness, on lust, on… And on a thing made all of rattlin… ‘What,’ said he, ‘will you bring t…

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…

After the war—I hear men ask—what… As tho this rock-ribbed world, scu… And bastioned deep in the ethereal… Can never be its morning self agai… Because of this brief madness, man…

Singing go I, seeking for ever a… Sung long ago; I ask no more to h… Her voice that sang-for I should… Had I the power, to bring her onc… Near to the earth, its sorrow or i…

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

Waiting in the woodland, watching… Thinking every leaf that stirs the… Thinking every whisper the rustle… How my heart goes up and up, and t… First it is a squirrel, then it is…

I was reading a letter of yours to… The date—O a thousand years ago! The postmark is there—the month wa… How, in God’s name, did I let you… What wonderful things for a girl t…

I nothing did all yesterday But listen to the singing rain On roof and weeping window-pane, And, 'whiles I’d watch the flying… And smoking breakers in the bay:

Fly, little note, And know no rest Till warm you lie Within that nest Which is her breast;