Dawn - and a magical stillness: on… On the waters a vast Content, as… In the heavens a silence that seem… But a thing with form and body, a… Yet I know that I dwell in the mi…

God-seeking thou hast journeyed fa… On dawn-lit mountain-tops thy soul… To hear His trailing garments wan… And where 'mid thunderous glooms g… Vainly thou sought’st His shadow…

As one whose eyes have watched the… Swoon to its crimson death adown t… Turning his face to eastward sudde… Sees a lack—lustre world all chill… Then, wandering sunless whitherso…

Reluctant Summer! once, a maid Full easy of access, In many a bee-frequented shade Thou didst thy lover bless. Divinely unreproved I played,

Nay, bid me not my cares to leave, Who cannot from their shadow flee. I do but win a short reprieve, ‘Scaping to pleasure and to thee. I may, at best, a moment’s grace,

Yes! urban is your Muse, and owns An empire based on London stones; Yet flow’rs, as mountain violets s… Spring from the pavement 'neath he… Of wilder birth this Muse of mine…

LET me go forth, and share    The overflowing Sun    With one wise friend, or one Better than wise, being fair, Where the pewit wheels and dips

Thy voice from inmost dreamland ca… The wastes of sleep thou makest fa… Bright o’er the ridge of darkness… The cataract of thy hair. The morn renews its golden birth:

Under the dark and piny steep We watched the storm crash by: We saw the bright brand leap and l… Out of the shattered sky. The elements were minist’ring

Eldest born of powers divine! Bless’d Hygeia! be it mine To enjoy what thou canst give, And henceforth with thee to live: For in power if pleasure be

What! and shall _we_, with such su… As age demands in reverence from t… Await these crumbs of praise from… And doubt of our own greatness til… The signet of your Goethes or Vol…

Youth! ere thou be flown away. Surely one last boon to-day Thou’lt bestow– One last light of rapture give, Rich and lordly fugitive!

The old rude church, with bare, ba… Beneath its shadow high-born Roth… Rotha, remembering well who slumbe… And with cool murmur lulling his r… Rotha, remembering well who slumbe…

City that waitest to be sung,— For whom no hand To mighty strains the lyre hath st… In all this land, Though mightier theme the mighties…

I made a little song about the ros… And sang it for the rose to hear, Nor ever marked until the music’s… A lily that was listening near. The red red rose flushed redder wi…