All that I dream By day or night Lives in that stream Of lovely light. Here is the earth,

When foxes eat the last gold grape… And the last white antelope is kil… I shall stop fighting and escape Into a little house I’ll build. But first I’ll shrink to fairy si…

Let us quarrel for these reasons: You detest the salt which seasons My speech . . . and all my lights… In the cold poison of your doubt. I love Shelley . . . you love Kea…

Stripping an almond tree in flower The wise apothecary’s skill A single drop of lethal power From perfect sweetness can distill From bitterness in efflorescence,

The headlights raced; the moon, de… Stared down on that golden river. I saw through the smoke the scarle… Of a boy who could not shiver. His father’s hand forced him to st…

The old moon is tarnished With smoke of the flood, The dead leaves are varnished With colour like blood. A treacherous smiler

I cannot give you the Metropolita… I cannot give you heaven; Nor the nine Visigoth crowns in t… Nor happiness, even. But I can give you a very small p…

Allegra, rising from her canopied… Slides both white feet across the… Which lace the peacock jalousies:… An idol of fine clay, with feet of…

I was always afraid of Somes’s Po… Not the little pond, by which the… Where laughing boys catch alewives… In brown, bright shallows; but the… There, where the frost makes all t…

Better to see your cheek grown hol… Better to see your temple worn, Than to forget to follow, follow, After the sound of a silver horn. Better to bind your brow with will…

My locks are shorn for sorrow Of love which may not be; Tomorrow and tomorrow Are plotting cruelty. The winter wind tangles

Within my house of patterned horn I sleep in such a bed As men may keep before they’re bor… And after when they’re dead. Sticks and stones may break their…

Too high, too high to pluck My heart shall swing. A fruit no bee shall suck, No wasp shall sting. If on some night of cold

I shall die hidden in a hut In the middle of an alder wood, With the back door blind and bolte… And the front door locked for good… I shall lie folded like a saint,

Say not of beauty she is good, Or aught but beautiful, Or sleek to doves’ wings of the wo… Her wild wings of a gull. Call her not wicked; that word’s t…