Long have I framed weak phantasie…    O Willer masked and dumb!    Who makest Life become, - As though by labouring all-unknowi…    Like one whom reveries numb.

I will be faithful to thee; aye,… And Death shall choose me with a… That he did not discern and domici… One his by right ever since that l… I have no care for friends, or kin…

You did not walk with me Of late to the hill-top tree As in earlier days, By the gated ways: You were weak and lame,

In Memory of one of the Writer’s… with Napoleon In a ferny byway Near the great South-Wessex High… A homestead raised its breakfast-s…

“Men know but little more than we, Who count us least of things terre… How happy days are made to be! “Of such strange tidings what thin… O birds in brown that peck and pre…

Pet was never mourned as you, Purrer of the spotless hue, Plumy tail, and wistful gaze While you humoured our queer ways, Or outshrilled your morning call

“OLD Norbert with the flat blue… A German said to be— Why let your pipe die on your lap, Your eyes blink absently?”— —"Ah!... Well, I had thought till…

‘I mean to build a hall anon, And shape two turrets there, And a broad newelled stair, And a cool well for crystal water; Yes; I will build a hall anon,

When of tender mind and body I was moved by minstrelsy, And that strain “The Bridge of L… Brought a strange delight to me. In the battle-breathing jingle

I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, a… From rail—track and from highway,… In field and farmstead many an anc… Of local lineage like “Thu bist,”… “Ich woll,” “Er sholl,” and by—ta…

'Ah Madam; you’ve indeed come bac… 'Twas sad-your husband’s so swift… And you away! You shouldn’t have… It hastened his last breath.' 'Dame, I am not the lady you thin…

I thought you a fire On Heron-Plantation Hill, Dealing out mischief the most dire To the chattels of men of hire There in their vill.

The ten hours’ light is abating, And a late bird flies across, Where the pines, like waltzers wai… Give their black heads a toss. Beech leaves, that yellow the noon…

at news of her death Not a line of her writing have I Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame i… I may picture her there;