There was a time in former years– While my roof—tree was his— When I should have been distresse… At such a night as this! I should have murmured anxiously,

PALE beech and pine-tree blue, Set in one clay, Bough to bough cannot you Bide out your day? When the rains skim and skip,

These numbered cliffs and gnarls o… Outskeleton Time’s central city,… Whereof each arch, entablature, an… Lies bare in all its gaunt anatomy… And cracking frieze and rotten met…

A Load of brushes and baskets and… Labours along the street in the ra… With it a man, a woman, a pony wit… The man foots in front of the hors… At a slower tread than a funeral t…

In the vaulted way, where the pass… To the shadowy corner that none co… You paused for our parting, - plai… Though overnight had come words th… My fond frail happiness out of me.

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; And in vain do I urge my unsight

For F. E. H. I sometimes think as here I sit Of things I have done, Which seemed in doing not unfit To face the sun:

Somewhere afield here something li… In Earth’s oblivious eyeless trus… That moved a poet to prophecies - A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust The dust of the lark that Shelley…

They had long met o’ Zundays—her… And at junketings, maypoles, and f… But she bode wi’ a thirtover uncle… Swore by noon and by night that he… Naibor Sweatley—a gaffer oft weak…

Here goes a man of seventy-four, Who sees not what life means for h… And here another in years a score Who reads its very figure and trim… The one who shall walk to-day with…

Woman much missed, how you call to… Saying that now you are not as you… When you had changed from the one… But as at first, when our day was… Can it be you that I hear? Let me…

Between us now and here -    Two thrown together Who are not wont to wear    Life’s flushest feather - Who see the scenes slide past,

Past the hills that peep Where the leaze is smiling, On and on beguiling Crisply-cropping sheep; Under boughs of brushwood

In our heart of hearts believing Victory crown the just, And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, Press we to the field ungrieving,