This morning, while we sat in talk Of spring and apple-bloom, Lo! Death stood in the garden wal… And peered into the room. Your back was turned, you did not…

The mist hangs round the College… The ghostly street Is silent at this midnight hour, Save for my feet. With none to see, with none to hea…

Whene’er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will loo… And then I neither know nor care What sense the printed words may b… At night when I would go to sleep…

‘In the shadow of Thy wings, O L… I will put my trust for ever,’ so… ‘Thou shalt help me, Thou shalt s… Thou shalt keep me whole, In the shadow of Thy wings.’

Artemis! thou fairest Of the maids that be In divine Olympus, Hail! Hail to thee! To thee I bring this woven weed

There was a time when in your face There dwelt such power, and in you… I know not what of magic grace; They held me captive for a while. Ah, then I listened for your voic…

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

Despair is in the suns that shine, And in the rains that fall, This sad forsaken soul of mine Is weary of them all. They fall and shine on alien stree…

Another day let slip! Its hours h… Its golden hours, with prodigal ex… All run to waste. A day of life t… Of many wasted days, alas, but one… Through my west window streams the…

The city once again doth wear Her wonted dress of winter’s bride… Her mantle woven of misty air, With saffron sunlight faintly dyed… She sits above the seething tide,

Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say… Song is not dead. While still the evening sky is red…

A day of gladness yet will dawn, Though when I cannot say; Perhaps it may be Thursday week, Perhaps some other day,— When man, freed from the bond of c…

Love, when the present is become t… And dust has covered all that now… When many a fame has faded out of… And many a later fame is fading fa… If then these songs of mine might…

O Love, thine empire is not dead, Nor will we let thy worship go, Although thine early flush be fled… Thine ardent eyes more faintly glo… And thy light wings be fallen slow

Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining yea… In all her tributary rills. A sense of change obscurely chills