Touched with beauty, I stand stil… In the autumn twilight. Yellow le… The grass enriching, gleam, or wav… From lime and elm: far—glimmering… The quiet lamps in order twinkle;…

O what magic shall compare Of the fresh earth or bright air To the joy that love around My full heart so swift has wound, Far beyond hope’s trembling flight

When old wounds bleed again In the silence of the night, And mixt with sweet delight Wells up the stream of pain, Is it less hard to endure

Time buys no wisdom like the eyes… Though youth itself be blinded wit… As a buoyant swimmer by the bursti… Of the resplendent surge, and know… The marvel of its own heart’s visi…

Silences in the mind, the haunting… Silences daunting, Chill as a cavern’s air, immuring… Yet inly luring Like springs that ooze there, glid…

Where is the land that fathered, n… The sap of a strong race into your… Land of wide tilth, of farms and g… Of old towers chiming over peacefu… It is become a vision, barred away

Gross, with protruding ears, Sleek hair, brisk glance, fleshy a… Red, full, and satisfied, Cased in obtuseness confident not… He sits at a little table

Warm, the deserted evening Closes over the moor. Was it here we walked and were mer… Only an hour before? Magic light in the west

A flower, or the ghost of a flower… Mist, or the soul of it, felt In the secret night’s mid hour, Lost on the morning air! Who shall recover it,—beauty born…

Splendours of sunset burned upon t… As from the lane’s deep shade Emerging, a warm grassy plat we fo… Skirting the forest glade, And in the midst a solitary oak.

Destiny drives a crooked plough And sows a careless seed; Now through a heart she cuts, and… She helps a helpless need. To—night from London’s roaring se…

O love, in whose heart—murmured na… Is charm against life’s endless wr… Since all the untuned world became In you a song! I bring not only all I wrought

In the time of wild roses As up Thames we travelled Where 'mid water-weeds ravelled The lily uncloses, To his old shores the river

Man, simple and brave, easily conf… Giving his all, glad of the sun’s… Heeding little of pitiful incomple… Mending life with laughter and che… Where is he?—I see him not, but I…

At Tiro, in her father’s tower, The young Cristina had her bower, Over blue Bolsena’s lake, Where small frolic ripples break Under a grove of sycamore