Fain would I shake thee off, but… Thy strong solicitations to withst… Plenty of work lies ready to my ha… Which rests irresolute, and lets i… How can I work, when that seducti…

I shall be spun. There is a voice… Which tells me plainly I am all u… For though I toil not, neither do… I shall be spun. April approaches. I have not begu…

I know the garden-close of sin, The cloying fruits, the noxious fl… I long have roamed the walks and b… Desiring what no man shall win: A secret place to shelter in,

How often have the critics, traine… To look upon the sky Through telescopes securely chaine… Forgot the naked eye. Within the compass of their glass

When the weary night is fled, And the morning sky is red, Then my heart doth rise and say, ‘Surely she will come to-day.’ In the golden blaze of noon,

Sleep flies me like a lover Too eagerly pursued, Or like a bird to cover Within some distant wood, Where thickest boughs roof over

When I was young and well and gla… I used to play at being sad; Now youth and health are fled away… At being glad I sometimes play.

[After Longfellow.] I drove a golf-ball into the air; It fell to earth, I knew not wher… For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

Oh, where’s the use of having gift… And where’s the use of singing, wh… It may be one or two will say your… But where’s the use of honey, when…

There was a time when it was count… To be a patriot—whether by the zea… Of peaceful labour for the country… Or by the courage in her cause to… FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a…

There is a village in a southern l… By rounded hills closed in on ever… The streets slope steeply to the m… Long lines of white-washed houses,… With roofs irregular, and steps of…

The Session’s over. We must say f… To these east winds and to this ea… For summer comes, with swallow and… With many a flower and many a golf… No more the horribly discordant be…

The air is dark and fragrant With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness By this most holy hour. The leaves forget to whisper

Till the tread of marching feet Through the quiet grass-grown stre… Of the little town shall come, Soldier, rest awhile at home. While the banners idly hang,

Not the proudest damsel here Looks so well as doth my dear. All the borrowed light of dress Outshining not her loveliness, A loveliness not born of art,