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,

What shall I sing when all is sun… And every tale is told, And in the world is nothing young That was not long since old? Why should I fret unwilling ears

The world is wide-around yon court… Where dirty little children play, Another world of street on street Grows wide and wider every day. And round the town for endless mil…

(TO JOHN FRASER) There, in my mind’s-eye, pure it l… My lodger’s vote! ’Twas mine to-d… It seemed a sort of maidenhood, My little power for public good,—

‘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…

Paths that wind O’er the hills and by the streams I must leave behind— Dawns and dews and dreams. Trails that go

Soldier going to the war— Will you take my heart with you, So that I may share a little In the famous things you do? Soldier going to the war—

O sad-eyed man who yonder sits, Face in a book from morn till nigh… Who, though the world should go to… Pores on right through the waning… O is it sorrow or delight

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

Once we met, and then there came Like a Pentecostal flame, A word; And I said not, Only thought,

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…

Poet, whose words are like the tig… Sealed in the capsule of a silver… Still at your art we wonder as we… The art dynamic charging each word… Seeds of the silver flower of Eme…

I see fair women all the day, They pass and pass-and go; I almost dream that they are shade… Within a shadow-show. Their beauty lays no hand on me,

When leaf and flower are newly mad… And bird and butterfly and bee Are at their summer posts again; When all is ready, lo! ’tis she, Suddenly there after soft rain–

Am I so soon grown tired?-yet thi… Can open still each morn so blue a… This great old river still through… Run like a happy boy to holidays, This sun be still a bridegroom, th…