THE woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy
Yet still she turns her restless h

NOW as at all times I can see in
In their stiff, painted clothes, t
Appear and disappear in the blue d
With all their ancient faces like
And all their helms of silver hove

We, who seven years ago
Talked of honour and of truth,
Shriek with pleasure if we show
The weasel’s twist, the weasel’s t

A BLOODY and a sudden end,
Gunshot or a noose,
For Death who takes what man woul
Leaves what man would lose.
He might have had my sister,

THE true faith discovered was
When painted panel, statuary.
Glass-mosaic, window-glass,
Amended what was told awry
By some peasant gospeller;

The First. My great-grandfather s
In Grattan’s house.
The Second. My great-grandfather
A pot-house bench with Oliver Gol
The Third. My great-grandfather’s

MAY God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought

i{"Though to my feathers in the we
i{I have stood here from break of
i{I have not found a thing to eat,
i{For only rubbish comes my way.}
i{Am I to live on lebeen-lone?'}

I went out alone
To sing a song or two,
My fancy on a man,
And you know who.
Another came in sight

The heron-billed pale cattle-birds
That feed on some foul parasite
Of the Moroccan flocks and herds
Cross the narrow Straits to light
In the rich midnight of the garden